


Saudade

by Raziel



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: Lord M - Freeform, Melbourne, Queen Victoria - Freeform, Saudade, Saudade Historical Melbourne, Saudade Lord M, Saudade Melbourne Victoria, Victoria - Freeform, Victoria and Melbourne, alternative history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 17:20:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 102,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20970215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raziel/pseuds/Raziel
Summary: Autumn 1846, Winter, Spring 1847





	1. Chapter 1

**Emily Temple, Viscountess Palmerston**

_Emily_

_October 1846_

_My childhood home, Brocket Hall. No matter how often I come – at least once a fortnight, oftener when other obligations permit – the atmosphere strikes me anew. For so long, during our childhood and over the course of my brother's marriage, these rooms were filled with children and noise and laughter and passion. Here, Mother hosted the Regent and his entourage; here, Father had a racecourse built, for the Prince's pleasure. Here too, my sister-in-law once reigned supreme. Her excesses and passions grew wearisome, of course, but Caro emanated such life that the very air crackled with the lightning energy of her presence. She filled the place with children, her own poor boy and the Churchill girl, and always a half-dozen others, drawn to her Pied Piper exuberance._

_And William – ah, William! He only had to enter a room, to fill it with his larger-than-life personality. Quick to laugh, full of eccentric enthusiasms, as fond of the sound of his own voice as others were of hearing it. How people flocked to him, men and women alike, eager to bask in the warmth of his presence!_

_My sad musings prod me to use past tense, for neither Brocket nor William are what they once were. The Hall, like all homes, absorb and reflects the life within, and in this year of Our Lord 1846 there is precious little life remaining._ _Brocket has acquired that neglected, impersonal, unlived-in look so often seen in single men’s residences, despite my best efforts and that of Fred's wife. _

_ My beautiful brother and our beautiful home are both dying by degrees, and there is nothing I can do to save them. My daughters and I visit regularly, we stay for days at a time, but despite our best efforts, servants grow lax without daily oversight. Dull finishes on cherry wood tables, wax stains and rings marring their once-glossy surface, tell the tale. Mother's pride, the Grand Gallery, speaks of neglect, peeling paint and dust motes heavy in the air. The kitchen fires are cold since he dismissed the cook, complaining bitterly of penury. A village woman sees to the house, his valet and the companion we hired to my brother's more intimate needs when he is not too indifferent to refuse them._

_William, my darling, the most handsome of man, is gaunt in the hollowed-out way a once-robust man diminishes. White-headed, dim-eyed, with stiff gait and dragging leg, he complains he is too sick and too tired to write or to read. And yet, during his six years as Premier, he found the time to read every new book, French and German as well as English, and could discuss them with the greatest erudition. Now he only recites from Cicero, long committed to memory. He mutters a single word so frequently that I searched out its meaning, understanding it before I knew. Sehnsuch, an inconsolable yearning for something which does not exist._

♛

**Emily**

**October 1846**

My childhood home, Brocket Hall. No matter how often I come the atmosphere strikes me anew. For so long, during our childhood and over the course of my brother's marriage, these rooms were filled with children and noise and laughter and passion. Here, Mother hosted the Regent and his entourage; here, Father had a racecourse built, for the Prince's pleasure. Here too, my sister-in-law once reigned supreme. Her excesses and passions grew wearisome, of course, but Caro emanated such life that the very air crackled with the lightning energy of her presence. She filled the place with children, her own poor boy and the Churchill girl, and always a half-dozen others, drawn to her Pied Piper exuberance.

Now our home, my beautiful Brocket Hall, shines with reflected glory. Yes, the infusion of wealth from Her Majesty's privy purse has enhanced its lovely Palladian proportions. And yes, I admit, I was leery at first, my nose out of joint at being supplanted as Mother's successor. But she was true to her word, my little sister-in-law and her architect exercised good taste and restraint. New slate roof, freshly glazed windows, fastidious expansion that did not alter the original footprint. More even than sorely-needed improvements, our beloved Hall again exudes the warmth of a much-loved home. These walls emanate life and love and, if I am not being too fanciful, the spirit of the house smiles on us all with satisfaction and contentment.

I hear William's deep rumbling laughter even before I see him. He steps into the foyer, pretending to stagger under the weight of the child on his back. My little niece Elizabeth, the Princess Royale, rides her father like a stallion, energetically kicking her heels into his ribs. Her brother trots alongside, neighing boisterously. If it were my own children and grandchildren behaving thus, I might chide them, although my heart would not be in it. But this is William, dear, darling William, with his neckcloth askew and silver hair hanging in his eyes like a forelock. And I see myself in Princess Elizabeth – she prefers that name to _Lily_, although her lisping pronunciation still renders it closer to the latter. She is a sprite, a tomboy determined to not let her sex restrain her, just as I followed my brothers about, insisting on joining in all of their adventures.

He bends to kiss me, except Lily reaches me first, rudely pushing back the brim of my bonnet. The little darling plants a wet kiss on my cheek, and her arms go around my neck. William catches me just as I think I will topple from her weight, and for a moment we hang on each other, laughing.

Whatever would they say now, Mother, Father, our Coke, Lamb, Milbanke grandparents? I freely confess to the shades of those who came before, that I am proud, rightfully so, of what our family has become. Where once, in the natural course of events, if the Lambs were remembered at all, it would have been only been for that unfortunate episode with the poet. But Lady Melbourne's favorite son, long considered indolent and unambitious and too prone to follow his heart, followed it to the very throne. Now, when the Lambs are remembered, it will be as a vigorous new branch grafted onto the _Ancien Régime _of the United Kingdom. The descendants of William Lamb will reign over the greatest nation on earth.


	2. Chapter 2

Emily arrived at precisely a quarter past three. She had delayed her departure as long as she could, harboring the slim hope that her husband might return. Henry had made no such promise; in fact, quite the contrary. When she'd last seen him, he had given her a jaunty little wave and blown her a kiss. He told her airily that she should not expect to see him at Panshanger until Saturday noon. _Well in time to do my duty. Neither you nor her little Majesty need fear for that. _Lord Palmerston's duty entailed bowing over the queen's hand and helping to entertain her guests with his bold, roguish manner. Be debonair and amusing, of course charming, always that. _In his own mind, at least_. She heard herself deliver the line with just the right drop of acid, to puncture Henry John Temple's boundless conceit.

The well-sprung brougham negotiated one final turn, and Emily leaned forward so she could see out the window. The slate roof of Brocket Hall emerged, as though rising up from the earth. Then the dear red-brick walls and mullioned windows, glass gleaming even at a quarter-mile distance. It was not a grand house, nothing on the scale of Chatsworth and Blenheim. Hardly imposing in aspect, its classical symmetry was nonetheless pleasing to behold.

In her mind and her heart, Brocket would always be _home_. It was more modest than Panshanger, the pile she occupied herself with renovating as Viscountess Palmerston. It lacked even the status of Melbourne Hall, their family's official seat. Pretension made it such an attractive rental property for the _arriviste_ class, upstart bankers and merchants willing to throw down vast sums to claim a nobleman's estate as their own for a season.

Now, like a dowager called out of retirement, Brocket Hall was to make its debut in society once more. Emily expressed pleasure and satisfaction, both almost entirely sincere, when informed that Victoria decided to make Brocket Hall an official residence. Her royal sister-in-law had poured thousands into needed restoration – not public funds; the money came from the privy purse – and this weekend would be its first turn in the public eye. _Not the public-public_, Victoria had hastened to explain, ever teetering between defiance and a craven desire for Emily's approbation, _only Lord and Lady John and several of the new cabinet._

She'd gone on to justify her intent, that Brocket Hall would become in name what it had long been in fact, the recognized country home of the royal family. No different than the Royal Pavilion had been for George IV, or the far-flung secondary and tertiary residences of earlier sovereigns. In the telling of her plans, Victoria had made clear that it was her love for the man as much as his home, which motivated her. William Lamb _would_ be recognized, not only by contemporaries but by generations to follow, as more than merely the queen's comfort and support but as a great man in his own right. Emily understood, if William did not, that little Vicky's determination to elevate him and secure his place for posterity was her way of coping with the inexorable march of time. When one loves a man forty years one's senior, there is no expectation of growing old _together_.

Emily sighed, and drew on her gloves. _I only hope she hasn't changed things beyond all recognition._

♛

The happy ruckus which greeted her left no room for trepidation. There was no time even to untie the ribbons on a now-sadly-crushed bonnet before she was enveloped in chaotic warmth. Excited chatter from the little prince and princess counterpoint to William's laughter left Emily helpless to do anything but join in. She accepted wet smacking kisses and the solid weight of Lily's body, nearly toppling over in the process. Liam, with a liveried monkey on his shoulder, hugged her waist and, sign of great royal favor, transferred his pet to her unwilling embrace. William, attractively rumpled, devoid of coat and neck cloth, wrapped his arms around all of them and rested his chin on her head.

"Emily!" Face buried in her brother's waistcoat, Emily heard rather than saw that familiar dulcet voice with its cut glass enunciation. Pushing herself upright, she nearly winced at the appearance she must present. This was, after all, the _queen_.

That queen was her brother's wife, and Victoria beamed, her smile warming those large blue eyes. Victoria's humors could never be taken for granted, Emily knew. She accepted the inherent difficulty of negotiating past early misgivings, when one's beloved brother became enamored of a child scarcely out of the schoolroom. More so, when that same brother has had his heart and pride crushed in the past, a victim to the excruciating embarrassment of public scandal. Multiply that protective fear and, yes, resentment exponentially when that _child_ was one's sovereign and that brother a senior statesman. Emily acknowledged that her own past disapproval and instinct to protect William from his own wayward heart had set her at odds with the headstrong girl who adored him.

"I'm so glad you've come early. Children, please allow auntie to catch her breath."

Emily fixed on the _early_, and warned herself not to take offense.

"I've not come to stay. I'm only looking in. I must reach Panshanger before dark."

"But surely you'll stay to dine? You _must_ see what we've done with the house."

Victoria took one of Emily's gloved hands in her own and favored her with a tremulous hopeful look. Victoria's deference annoyed Emily, because it was a dangerous and fickle display. _Trust not the favor of princes_, said some wise man or other.

Victoria attempted to smooth back the halo of fine hairs which framed her face, sticking to skin damp with perspiration. The movement made Emily take notice of the queen's appearance. She was normally neat as a pin, in private as well as on more ceremonious public occasions. Today Victoria's dress was nearly obscured by a white apron and her lack of inches more pronounced, explained by the scuffed house slippers peeking out from her hem. Seemingly without conscious intent, the little figure leaned against William's more imposing one so that there was no daylight between them.

The tableau struck Emily powerfully, almost like a blow to the chest. _This was a family_, before any consideration of dynasty or power or prestige. Their unspoken solidarity momentarily pierced her heart with a searing pain, the agony of the outsider. That uncharitable sensation swiftly passed, with the comforting weight of William's arm on her shoulder, with the sticky warmth of her niece and nephew and the sweet expression on Victoria's face. _The girl has no malice in her,_ Emily thought_, and craves my acceptance and approval. She doesn't seek to push me away._

Bonnet, gloves and capelet were belatedly removed and handed off to a waiting footman. Even that young gentleman's appearance was not what one would expect in any gentleman's country home, far less that of the queen and Duke of Melbourne.

"We have been busy, as you see," Victoria explained. "I've been learning to make _gastrique_ using all the blackberries we picked. And the children were out of doors."

The Princess Royale was in sad disarray, looking like a crofter's child in the poorest of tenancies. Emily's gaze travelled from mud-stained boots, to corduroy trousers and dingy little frock. Lily and Liam both wore knit jumpers made of coarse, hand-dyed wool.

"The footmen have been washing windows and the yard boys scrubbing the brick in the porte-cochère. Our Lily provided assistance with the latter."

"Horse pooh!" the little girl said, wrinkling her nose comically. "I scrubbed it _alllll_ clean!"

"So you see, Emily, we are doing our part to ready the Hall for her weekend guests." Victoria had dispensed with the apron, and with it some of her informality.

Emily's early assessment – _she will never be a beauty_ – had proved a gross underestimation of what maturity and contentment could do. Victoria's small face had lost its baby fat over the years, and if not a classic beauty, she was very pretty indeed. Her skin was good, and those big eyes – especially when lit from within, as she gazed adoringly at the man beside her – gave Victoria startling appeal. She had a vividness not unlike Caro's, in degree if not character. Victoria's vibrancy was less abrasive, and slower to make itself known because her strength of character was anchored in tranquility, the very opposite of Caro's discontent. Little Vicky could be forceful, oh yes, make no mistake – in private as well as public sphere – but William's steadiness and their happiness together gave her the luminosity of a contented woman.

Refreshments were called for and the children sent away with Mrs. Thurston, chief nurse. Like any good hostess Victoria sought to put her visitor at ease. She laughingly described her ineptitude in the kitchen, and her effort to achieve detente between a Paris-trained London chef brought to Brocket for the occasion, and the Hall's long-time housekeeper and cook. Emily knew the performance was for her benefit and found it touching; self-deprecating humor was not Victoria's forte.

"And why didn't Henry ride with you?" William asked, when Victoria lapsed into silence while the tea things were laid out. His drawling delivery implied that he knew the answer, and Emily saw no need to dissemble.

"He has obligations in town, that he did not care to forgo. I'm sure he would be sorely missed, if he had escorted me."

Theirs had been a love-match, based on longstanding affection, but one could not expect a leopard to entirely change his spots. So long as she was spared public humiliation, and he returned to her after each new peccadillo, what cause had she to complain? Perhaps because of that determined forbearance, the sympathetic understanding in Victoria's eyes was provoking.

_You'll never understand, ma'am. _Emily wanted to say. _You'll never have to understand. Compromise is not in you._

William turned the conversation in a new direction and the three of them chatted amiably for a time.

Improvements to Brocket Hall had been underway for the past several years, mostly long-overdue maintenance. More substantial alterations had taken place during the Venetian sojourn of His Grace and Her Majesty. It was these which formed the basis for Emily's dread. She feared her own reaction as much as the changes themselves, and the loss of childhood memories.

Victoria attempted to explain the criteria upon which all modifications had been decided upon. Her architect, she promised, had began with the understanding that nothing in the original footprint must be altered. All reconfigurations were strictly internal, and even then, new must be seamlessly integrated with existing fixtures and designs. Emily tried unsuccessfully to follow along as the younger woman enthusiastically dove into technical terminology. _Cavetto_, _dado_, and _embrasure_ slipped easily from her lips, along with more recognizable names such as Paine, Wheatley and the eponymous Andrea Palladio. Victoria's cheeks, already pink from whatever had entailed the wearing of an apron, flushed when she intercepted the amused glance William exchanged with Emily.

"I'm sure it's all lovely, ma'am, and quite appropriate. You are, after all, the mistress of Brocket Hall and can do what you like with or without my approval." Emily spoke soothingly, and found she almost completely meant what she said. She had no desire to alienate this prickly, proud girl who was, among her other titles, Lady Melbourne.

"I do go on," Victoria offered more humbly. "But you see, it's so good to be a part of creating something. Not creating, precisely, but…well, I love Brocket Hall so very much! I feel as though I can breathe here, and be myself without pomp and protocol."

_And yet you will bring the pomp and protocol to you_, Emily wanted to observe. 

"Hush, darling. You needn't concern yourself. Em is not come to criticize." William picked up her hand and pressed it to his lips, then Victoria lifted the other to cup his check in her palm. 

"Brocket Hall is the first real home I ever truly had. All the rest are held in trust for the nation. Here...this place is meant to be lived in and loved." Emily marked the reluctance with which Victoria let her hand drop away. She suspected that if not for her own presence, they might have been content to linger in the intimacy of the moment. Victoria smiled brightly.

"Your opinion _does_ matter, Emily. To me, and to William. This was your home first, and your mother's, and Caroline's. I am the interloper here and am grateful to be only Lady Melbourne."

_She means it_, Emily realized, humbled at the awareness, no matter how oft repeated, that it was her own dear brother whom this young woman adored. Once, she had assumed their attachment was a transient thing. She had envisioned it exploding in scandal or burning out like a comet in the sky. Instead, the love between them burned steadily over the years, so constant and genuine that it afford to be generous.

They were so powerfully drawn to one another that they seemed unable to even occupy separate chairs if there was room for two on a sofa. Nothing indecent, not even flirtatious – exactly – but the powerful current between them was as palpable as the pull towards unification Mr. Faraday demonstrated in those electromagnetism lectures, so popular with ladies who considered themselves intellectually inclined.

"Very well. I would be honored to have you show me what's been done," Emily said firmly, matching Victoria's determined friendliness with her own. 

William took her arm and tucked it firmly in his, stepping back so Victoria could walk ahead. Emily grinned up at him, perfectly aware that he could read her thoughts. The look he returned her was both sheepish and smug. _A happy husband is insufferable_, she muttered so only he could hear. They both knew such sharpness was no more than sibling banter.

Victoria led them past the main staircase, where brass fittings gleamed. Each crystal pendant in the chandeliers sparkled, multiplying their prisms of light. The Grand Saloon, designed for entertaining royalty, was superficially unchanged. Emily noted only the absence of subtle old stains on the silk wall coverings, and a new brilliance in the colors of the fabulously painted ceiling. Mother's Chippendale furnishings, table and chairs to seat eighty, looked fresh and new...but unchanged. So far, Emily thought, she's been true to her word.

Just beyond the draped floor-to-ceiling windows lay a surprise. Those casement windows had been replaced with doors in the French fashion, opening out onto a new portico supported by slender Greek columns. Emily could find no fault; the outdoor space was as practical as it was pleasant to behold.

"To take the air, when we have dancing," Victoria explained. "Or even, to dine _al fresco_ when the weather is fine. That is quite popular in Italy."

_Clever girl, to think of such things, now that you are planning to entertain at Brocket Hall. The more convenience, even luxury, to be found here, the less likely people were to complain of having to travel up from London for a single night. No one would refuse the Queen's invitation, of course, but this combination of elegance and simplicity might be just the thing to make Brocket Hall a destination to anticipate and not merely endure._

From the portico they walked down a refurbished small gallery, toward a door Emily could not recall seeing. It opened into a room, the contents of which made her gape in shock.

"A water closet, ma'am? In the middle of Hertfordshire? Whatever –" she popped her mouth closed, lest something that sounded like criticism escape. Not that water closets weren't showing up all over Mayfair and Piccadilly. The finest houses, the most discriminating hostesses, discreetly flaunted their indoor plumbing. But _here_? What would Mother say? _'A waste of money'? Ostentatious?_ Neither, Emily knew. Lady M would be the first to show off such modern convenience, along with a risqué quip to excuse the indelicacy. Recalling the rank odor of over-used privies when two or three hundred convened in a ballroom, the toilette water sprinkled lavishly so that unpleasant odors did not cling, Emily could only admire the innovation.

Below stairs, the kitchen had its own supply of water piped in, along with a great copper contraption to supply heated water. Emily looked around curiously. If not her very first visit to the kitchen, it was not much removed – and it was one place she most definitely could not imagine her mother stepping foot. Yet here, in the country, _la petite reine_ played at cooking when even the bourgeois could not escape the stove quickly enough.

"You might – you _will_ find some changes here that are less easily disguised," Victoria said hesitantly as they climbed the graceful staircase.

"It's fine, ma'am – " Emily correctly interpreted the little moue of annoyance and revised her form of address. "It's fine, Victoria. You've done amazingly well. I might have to consult you before I go further with Panshanger." She worried she had gone too far, but Victoria beamed with pride at the compliment.

Throwing open the doors to a succession of sleeping rooms, Emily nodded at the unobjectionable interiors. She counted - eight, nine, no ten new guest chambers in one wing; more in the family corridor.

"Mama has her own bedchamber now, and this one is for you. You must decorate it as you wish; I chose only the most unobjectionable fabrics to start."

A second and third water closet, one at the end of the guest wing and the second directly adjacent the nursery. Those same gleaming copper appliances stood in a corner of each, promising enough hot water to fill the deep soaking tubs. _What an unimaginable luxury ten, even twenty years before!_ And the…er…_commode_, a distinct improvement on less technological fixtures. _No more pretending to ignore the full chamber pot under the bed, until a maid could whisk it out of sight in the morning. Only –_

"Where did all the extra rooms come from? How did you manage without, as you say, altering the footprint of the house?" Emily only asked out of genuine curiosity, but she knew as soon as she saw Victoria's expression that she had hit upon a sore spot.

Victoria's guilelessness and inability to dissemble had caused her to forge a nearly-impenetrable mask of icy reserve in place of outright deception. Those shutters came down now, in response to Emily's question.

"The master suites, Em," William said jovially. "They were significantly reconfigured to make better use of the space."

"Mother's apartment?" Emily heard her own tone, sharper than intended. "What about the Prince's –?"

"Ah, the _pièce de résistance_! It remains completely preserved." His voice was deliberately light-hearted, but Emily decided it held a warning. It was not her place to approve or disapprove.

"See?" He flung open the double doors as proof, and Emily beheld the bedchamber once decorated exclusively for the Prince Regent. Whether or not he had been Mother's lover, he had made Father one of his favorites on her account. That he had a bedroom of his own at Brocket Hall was a distinct mark of favor, as much as the racetrack built for his amusement in the back.

A riot of reds and oranges and yellows and gold, delicate porcelain chinoiserie. Fabulous eastern designs on a background of white, the wall coverings might have been freshened, but if so, Emily could not discern any line of demarcation. This truly hideous room had been wondrous when seen through the eyes of a child, and she felt unspeakably consoled at seeing it as it had been.

"It is a monstrosity, a distillation of all that was so overdone at the Pavilion," Emily laughed, companionably laying a hand on her sister-in-law's back. "I can't say why it means so much to me to see it intact, but –"

"It is part of your family's history," Victoria answered softly. "The Lambs have ever been specially regarded by the Crown. We haven't had so very much happiness in our own lives, and have been privileged to share yours."

"And now our families are one and the same." Victoria turned her face up for her husband's kiss. He complied, holding her chin as his head bent over hers. Emily cleared her throat.

Caroline's apartment, so long unchanged, as though its mistress might return to pick up the hair brush she'd once laid down, had been obliterated, as had Susan's – and William's too. The square footage had been cleverly redrawn.

The Queen's apartment, once Lady Elizabeth Melbourne's, had been halved in size, as had the former nursery-cum-asylum where Augustus had lived. As he grew to a man's size and strength, it had often been necessary to confine him. He developed an unfortunate propensity for hiding in the bushes and throwing himself upon any female who ventured close. A man's needs in a man's body controlled by the mind of a deranged child, Emily had often implored William to send his son away, to some distant institution where he might be kept out of public view. Dear William would not have it, and after Caroline's death had kept his son with him, first in Dublin and then in London.

This new generation of children, the boy who would be king and was the perfect antithesis of his unhappily flawed half-brother, his lively little sister and the new babe who might be born in the spring, shared one central room with sleeping alcoves. To Liam and Lily and the little prince-or-princess-to-be, Brocket Hall would never be hospital or prison, only a warm, welcoming and quite wonderful home where they could escape the constraints of royal life.

Victoria's and William's bedchambers were now more modestly sized. Each held a bed, but Emily was willing to bet only one of the two was generally in use. William's room, in the dark blues and greens he favored, had a wide writing desk that had once served him on South Street and a single plump armchair by the fire. Two walls were covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, full to overflowing with well-thumbed volumes. Victoria's had a reclining chaise and, in one corner, an antique cradle. Emily recognized it at once, from the scroll work alone, and even sanding and a fresh coat of varnish could not hide the marks left by a succession of milk teeth. She and each of her brothers had once occupied that cradle, before it made its way through the next generation of children. Emily had refused to send it with either of her daughters, not wanting a Lamb family heirloom to be lost in the estate of a Shaftesbury or Jocelyn.

Their separate bedchambers met in the middle, with dressing rooms, yet another water closet and small sitting room in between. 

"Not so bad then? Tell me honestly, and if there's anything I can change, I will."

Victoria's tone was still pleasant and well-modulated, but Emily was suddenly reminded this was neither shy child nor aloof queen. This was her sister-by-marriage, a wife and mother, and the woman who had given William long-overdue joy of his life. No, it would never be entirely easy or comfortable for either of them, but they were family and, in the end,, that was all that truly mattered. Emily almost grudgingly acknowledged her own affection.

"I see nothing to complain of, were I so inclined," Emily said emphatically. She was not a particularly demonstrative woman but she impulsively drew Victoria into an embrace. Victoria was pliant in her arms, sweet and warm and yielding, seeming as surprised by the gesture as Emily herself.

"And I may make use of that hot water, whilst I'm here for the weekend. If it's as luxurious as I imagine then Palmerston might find himself short of funds the next quarter. His _belle de jour _can take second place to a new bathing room at Cambridge House."

♛

Emily declined Victoria's insistence that she dine with them, even spend the night. They would return on the morrow, as house guests for the weekend, but tonight she would sleep in her own bed. Her wardrobe, carefully curated to do justice to the Queen's house party, awaited her there and the most efficient of dressers could not be depended upon to choose every article of one's toilette. She had another reason, secret even from herself. Henry might, just might, surprise her with his presence. It was not likely, not even a near thing, but if he were to make such a romantic gesture, then she would be there to greet him and welcome him to her bed.

When they embraced once more, as she prepared to take her leave, Victoria had laid Emily's hand on her nearly-flat stomach and pressed. She felt a large obstruction in her throat, and coughed to clear it. Five grown children and a host of grandchildren with more on the way; why should William's babe occupy such a disproportionately large space in her heart? 

"You are well? Everything is as it should be?" Their eyes met and Emily felt a genuine connection between them, warmth and burgeoning affection beyond old grudges and offended pride. She thought that she understood what William saw in this young woman.

"Everything is fine, Emily. And it will continue to be fine." 

"Good night, my dear. With or without my husband brought to heel, I will return as soon as I can tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last of Emily’s POV for a while...I miss being in William’s head too much to remain outside it for long:)


	3. Chapter 3

["Saudade" on YouTube (Jenny of Oldstones)](https://youtu.be/RHazIlhVMYI)

A pair of intricately carved Chinese throne chairs, each boasting fabulous dragons, had been strategically placed at one end of the ballroom. These had been discovered in a lumber room gathering dust, and restored to hideous splendor by carnauba wax and vigorous buffing. They had been gifts from George Augustus Frederick, when he was only Prince of Wales and the Lambs amongst his favorites. Melbourne wondered why they had not been burned as soon as the Regent's attention turned elsewhere.

The _ladies' drawing room_, which faced east and thus was used as a morning room, appeared as Lady Elizabeth left it, straw-colored silk fabric on walls and upholstery so perfectly matched that only a sharp eye detected its newness, no longer faded to pale muddy hues.

Melbourne's library had been even less tampered with, to his private relief. The only evidence of change – a word and a concept he abhorred – was a brown leather Chesterfield sofa fully seven feet in length. It had been so well-used in the past 48 hours that it would have been churlish to protest.

_He had planned to be gone no more than two hours, intending only to escort Emily to her door. He travelled with her in her carriage, his groom riding behind and leading a second horse. The two hours turned into more than six, and he'd arrived in his own stable yard scarcely able to remain upright. All he could do was slide down from the saddle, inelegantly collapsing in a pair of strong arms. _

_Moving at the slowest of walking paces, his placid country-bred gelding had faithfully carried him home. Crossing the bridge, catching that first glimpse of the Hall, Melbourne had felt a small smile momentarily break through the rictus of pain. One rectangle of warm yellow light broke the dark façade of the building, and in it a small dark silhouette. When he looked up again, a much-larger figure had joined her vigil; when he'd glanced up one final time, before circling round back, both were gone and the window empty._

♛

The library had become his sick room. Unable to climb the stairs, Melbourne had collapsed on that fine new sofa, unable to move further. Had Billy not been there to catch him, he would have fallen on his face in the mud. It made an interesting quandary to ponder, which alternative would have been less lacerating to one's self-esteem. 

Victoria and the physician she summoned would have had him carried bodily to his bed, and there he would have remained, whilst Brocket Hall hosted its first weekend house party in thirty years. Melbourne would have none of it, neither the insult to his dignity and manhood, nor the gossip which would arise as a result. Their compromise: the blasted _dragon chairs_.

The very ridiculousness of the chairs, epitomizing an earlier fetish for all things Oriental and celebration of excess, saved them from any accusation of pretension. Their ample proportions accommodated bolsters and pillows that Victoria arranged with her own hands to keep him as comfortable as possible. And the accursed drops of laudanum, _Devil Morpheus_, allow his mind to float above the pain.

It was that combination of forced immobility and narcotic trance which gave Melbourne his first experience of merely watching, non-participant observer. It was even more delightful than he'd imagined, to bask in the bliss of his home, his family and above all Victoria, powerless to do anything but _be._

That same sweet voice which had crooned soothing nonsense syllables in his ear drifted in and out of earshot as she walked about the Hall, checking on the myriad details. Melbourne listened to the firm courtesy with which she addressed servants, the brisk decisiveness with which she specified _this_ menu substitution, _that_ assignment of sleeping rooms for guests who would stay the entire weekend at Brocket Hall. Everything was done, but never quite done, for all that – it had been no different when Caroline took it into her head to give a dinner and invite two hundred or Mother and Father entertained the Prince of Wales and his entourage.

In between errands which took her away, Victoria returned to his side. Then for long meandering minutes they talked while she caressed away his pains.

♛

_Spasm of the muscles, and inflamed nerves in the spinal cord. No loss of function, which is exactly what we hope to see. The local doctor had said all this previously, but Victoria insisted on sending for Danny Cameron. He brought with him battlefield experience with spinal cord injuries, and a more recent Harley Street practice focused solely on intractable injuries in need of the surgeon's knife. _

_"These small bony growths are called osteophytes," Daniel Cameron had said, his manner as surly and indifferent as ever. "Osteophytes sometimes become large enough to cause narrowing of the spinal canal, entrapping nerves passing through them. It's a gradual process – what most call lumbago – but occasionally, something irritates those trapped nerves to such an extent that the whole region becomes inflamed and these supporting ligaments join the choir."_

_"Just an exacerbation of your lumbago. Triggered, no doubt, by the inactivity of that carriage ride. And, most important, no permanent damage…so far. Just rest and a gradual return to your normal activities."_

_Cameron removed a glass bottle from its newspaper wrapping and set it carefully on the table._

_Melbourne despised laudanum nearly as much as he respected its potential for entrapment. The Prince Regent had lingered for months in a drug-induced stupor, and Caro had grown bloated, a caricature of Ariel, in her final year. Laudanum had been their friend and enabler, sinking its seductive tentacles into mind and body. Soul too, he'd often thought, when nothing mattered more to his wife than her next infusion of bitter brown liquid._

_"Suit yourself," Cameron had responded, shrugging, when he violently rejected the suggestion. "But while it's at its worst, pain can take a toll on the heart. Your blood pressure is already dangerously elevated. Two days of rest, three at the most, and laudanum at measured intervals. That's my advice, take it or leave it."_

_Melbourne took it._

♛

Those minutes turned into hours of enforced inactivity brought back much of the sweetness of their early days, when it seemed to Melbourne that he and Victoria never ran out of things to say. She enjoyed hearing about Whig society in its heyday, and was particularly enthralled by the scandals of her uncles.

“George IV never was popular,” he told her, "although as Prince Florizel he briefly seemed to be an improvement on old Farmer George. Even sane, the old boy was so straight-laced and boring that the people were ready for a change."

"By the time he was named Regent, even with all the limitations in place, his excesses outweighed whatever popular appeal remained. And his marriage –" Melbourne rolled his eyes heavenward, remembering. "Whatever Princess Caroline did, had no weight with the people, for, they said, it was all his fault at first. … His conduct toward her was quite mad. If he had only separated, and let her alone, that wouldn’t have signified; but he persecuted her. Odd as it was to all of his who sought to soothe his temper, he cared as much about what she did, as if he had been very much in love with her."

Victoria peppered him with questions, and Melbourne was reminded that she was no longer an innocent. _He_ was in a position to know.

"It was said in certain quarters that the root of his antipathy was an inability to perform the duties of marriage. A man will detest the woman who knows his weakness in that regard."

Victoria was curled up at the very end of the long sofa, and his head rested on a pillow in her lap. When she toyed with his hair and stroked his head he wanted to purr with pure feline contentment, despite the searing pains in his back.

"The way in which he treated her immediately after the marriage was beyond everything wrong and foolish, considering the way he lived himself. But I cannot forget what a kind and gracious prince he was, when Mother first brought me to him. He dandled us on his knee and fed us sweetmeats, and never tired of our childish prattle."

Melbourne shocked Victoria with the stories he had heard in his mother's drawing room, of Letty Lade racing at Newmarket, and titillated her with tales of Richard Barry, 7th Earl of Barrymore, the notorious rake, womanizer and worse.

"Worse? Do tell; what do you mean by worse?" Victoria asked, her eyes bright with anticipation.

Melbourne laughed easily. "You forget, ma'am, that I myself was only a schoolboy at the time. There was a limit to what even Mother would permit in our hearing. But they called him Hellgate, and his younger brother Newgate. Their sister was known as Billingsgate."

Victoria sighed. "It all sounds quite exciting. Entirely disreputable, of course, and not at all the thing, especially for a Prince of the Blood. But if his father was so prudish and determined to live simply, away from society, how did the son become such a profligate?"

"That, my love, is generally the way. If the father represses all natural exuberance, the son will generally go in the opposite direction. Poor Florizel was kept in gowns long past the time other boys were breeched. His father kept a close control on his household, and would allow no influence from the outside world to penetrate. That made it all seem terribly exciting, I'm sure."

They lapsed then into more serious talk, of their own children and the best means of guiding their development.

"I daresay there are many who think we are too lenient, and others who would say we need to expose the children to all the ills of society at an early age. Liam will come of age in an entirely different world. Society is changing now at the speed of light."

"What do you mean? Take him to orphanages and poor houses and such? Let him see poverty and degradation firsthand?"

"Not at all, my love, although I'm sure there are some of the more ardent reformers who would suggest that is an integral part of any prince's education. But should we care for the opinion of those who would prefer to have no princes at all?"

When had Victoria left him with a promise to send his valet with evening attire, Melbourne pushed himself to a seated position and then, steeling himself against the tearing, ripping pain, got to his feet. He moved slowly to the window and stared out at the lawn where a strong wind whipped fallen leaves into an eddy. _How very pleasant it is to be here, in my home, where everything is bright and warm and filled with life, _he mused. It was no more than an awareness, and recognition of all he had to be grateful for in his life. _Why then did I shudder, and feel something akin to dread?_ _What might have prompted a farmer's wife to say 'a goose walked over your grave'._

A double draught of laudanum got Melbourne through the contortions of washing. He permitted Baines to shave him, a task he generally performed himself. When it was time to dress, he gaped at the wicked appliance that his valet held.

_"A corset?"_ Melbourne spluttered, liberally adding expletives to express outrage.

"A back brace, my lord," the man replied. "The physician left it with the strictest of orders. If you intend to be on your feet and dine at table, you are to wear this, strapped as tightly as I am able."

_Corset_, Melbourne repeated, swearing under his breath. If this was what Victoria endured, he wondered why it took pregnancy to abandon such torture.

♛

"You look quite the romantic figure, William," Dorothea, Princess Lieven said, looking him up and down. She was still a handsome relic, he thought. Lucky Guizot, to have captured her heart.

"Tall, dark and handsome, still as a statute and twice as stern," she continued. "You don't dance, even with Her Majesty?"

Only some of the two dozen couples were dancing; thus, it was no ball, but only a simple country dance, so Victoria had explained with charming modesty as she and the ladies left the gentlemen to their port and cigars.

"I don't dance tonight, Princess. Where is Monsieur Guizot? I should hardly expect to see him anywhere but at your side."

"He is dancing with your most charming sister, my dear friend and – what is it they say? – colleague in petticoat diplomacy. Meanwhile, I wait for the Viscount Palmerston. Your queen has him in thrall."

Their guests had arrived in ample time, to settle in their rooms and dress for dinner. They had dined well, albeit more simply than some were accustomed, and then adjourned to the Grand Gallery. Half the floor was cleared in the center for dancing, and a small orchestra played at one end. Chairs lined the walls in groups of twos and threes, for those who preferred to watch and those infernal _dragon chairs_ stood empty, waiting. The other end of the long gallery was mysteriously draped, concealing whatever entertainment lay beyond.

Victoria had informed Palmerston that he would take the floor with her, so that others might feel free to follow suit. He had only smirked, raising one sandy brow in an expression of sardonic amusement.

"'Oh, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd! And though she be but little, she is fierce.'" Palmerston had quipped, but he bowed and extended his hand.

Melbourne watched with both pride and amusement, as Victoria got her dance. She was so slight, in contrast to his burly brother-in-law, that it only emphasized her delicate elegance. Victoria, he noted, had quite overcome the early, debilitating social insecurity that had been imperfectly concealed by a stiff hauteur. In those early days she had been dismissed by her own courtiers as just another gauche German immigrant. But Victoria was determined to break free of the gilded cage which her predecessors had erected around the throne. She had such innate dignity that one could never forget her station, but it was pleasingly tempered with a natural poise and openness. Her mind was too serious to ever become adept at the sort of frivolous chatter practiced in some circles, but Melbourne had assured her that those air-headed beauties were quickly forgotten when the first blush of youth faded. There were others, his particular friends amongst them, who combined elegance and charm with sharp intelligence and well-formed personalities. Victoria, he knew, would be one of those, a woman to be reckoned with regardless of age or station.

Palmerston returned her to Melbourne and he led her with exaggerated resignation to the carved Chinese throne-chairs. Lowering himself was a feat best accomplished in silence, and he was unable to conceal the gasp of pain when he bent his back to the task. Victoria looked at him with sympathetic understanding, and laid her hand over his to console him.

"So," he said, when he was able to speak. "What is the surprise entertainment you have planned?"

Victoria lowered her eyes and bit her lip, to hide a smile, he thought, recognizing a suppressed excitement.

"We've brought a psychic medium to perform," she announced proudly. "Emily helped me to make the arrangements. You remember Miss Georgiana Eagle? It seems she bills herself as _Queen Victoria's Medium_ in America, so it seemed appropriate to invite her back to earn that royal warrant."


	4. Chapter 4

_Perhaps a bonfire, with the field luncheon at tomorrow's shoot?_ I knew where I was going with this and thought it worth a try.

"You are most certainly not going out in the field!" my darling wife protested, entirely missing the point.

"I daresay the pheasants will be sorry. My presence ensures their survival."

I had never been much interested in blood sports, and entirely missed the allure of tramping around in cold muddy fields. Heresy, of course, so I rarely confessed.

"But I'll see that a bonfire is burning well when our huntsmen return." This time she did not miss my intent to tease. "That dried rosewood ought to burn nicely, once the lacquer ignites."

I lay in my bed and felt like a conquering hero. Two nights on that sofa, afraid to turn over lest I tumble to the floor, had made me determined to triumph over the stairs. Five-inch risers, twelve in all, yet I might have been facing all 311 steps which led to the top of Monument Tower. Liquid courage in the form of those damned laudanum drops got me started, but by the end only the prospect of our guests finding their host slumped lifeless halfway up kept me going.

Not what I told _her_, of course, when I was able to speak. _The prospect of you in my bed_ made a far gallant speech than the other.

I was rewarded for my endurance by a lessening of the pain, in a way not attributable to opium. _That_ stuff only lifts one above the pain – it's there but one can't quite be bothered to care. Right on track, as I recalled the surgeon's opining.

She lay on her stomach, head propped on her arms, not quite touching out of deference to my discomfort. When I made her laugh, she ducked her head in an adorable gesture, her one hand going up to cover her mouth. Feodora had once "helpfully" criticized how she laughed, and ever after my Victoria was self-conscious.

"I suppose Lord Palmerston told you about our talk." She absently twirled one strand of brown hair, forming the ends into a paintbrush of sorts and using it to trace patterns on my skin.

I only shrugged, noncommittal. He had told me his version, of course, wrongly assuming she would have told me hers. My girl would confide everything, but my _queen_ had shown her minister the same consideration I would want in his place. I might surmise the reason for their tête-à-tête but until he confirmed it, I would not ask.

"He displeased me greatly, by circumventing my expectation and my _right_ to be kept informed of any correspondence with foreign powers. Especially," and here, her sweet girlish voice became dry, wry and even somewhat cynical. "when he hints that he is speaking on my behalf."

Victoria grunted a little, pushing herself up. She bent and crossed her legs, and I thought she might be gathering her thoughts.

"And I erred in trusting the word of a king, doubting the veracity of my own ministers. It was foolish of me to believe there is some bond between monarchs which precludes deception, and I will not make the same mistake again. I also…" in the light of a single candle – Victoria disliked the harsher flame of gas in the bedchamber – she might have blushed slightly; I could not be sure.

"I automatically took the word of Louis-Phillipe over that of our Henry because I dislike his behavior as a minister. He _acts_ as though he considers _any_ sovereign an impediment at worst, and a quaint figurehead at best."

"He is a Whig, and that's the entire basis of Whiggery, my love." I made my voice gentle and devoid of teasing. She could not be laughed out of this so easily, I thought.

"You are – were – a Whig, and never held such beliefs."

"I was at best a moderate, at worst a Tory in Whig clothing. When I was very young, I considered revolution a fine thing, and a republic something to aspire to. We all did then, taking the side of America when Lord North made such a botch of things. France cured me of any such illusions. Stability and tradition must be the bedrock of our English society. And _those_, my dear, are where you come in."

"And Henry? What does he truly believe, in his heart?"

"Henry?" I tasted the name of my boisterous brother-in-law. Setting aside any claim to familial bonds, I framed my response. "I think he imagines himself an ideological republican, just as he imagines himself still a willowy boy of eighteen. But he's no fool and no revolutionary and at his core, he is as ardent a royalist as any amongst us. Because he's above all an Englishman, through and through."

In her careful hand, that pointed lock of hair traced words in invisible ink on my most sensitive skin. _What was she writing?_ I tried to discern the pattern and gave up, not caring so long as she continued.

"So, you reached an understanding?" I asked instead. "You and Henry?"

Victoria chuckled, sounding very grown up and worldly.

"I think so. He will continue to race headlong in pursuit of the foreign policy he considers in the best interests of the nation, and I will bring him to heel when I must. We at least agree that neither of us harbors selfish motives. And – although it was not spoken of – we are family after the dust settles, just as we were before. He is Uncle Henry to our children, and brother to us. That bond cannot strengthen his position in political affairs, but neither will it be weakened by anything which occurs in the public sphere."

"Very wise, and very judicious," I murmured, distracted. My interest was now more narrowly focused on an entirely other matter requiring the Queen's immediate attention.

My darling took charge then, and would brook no interference. She commanded and I obeyed, entirely dependent upon her will.

♛

_Those things you said to Miss Eagle – you truly believe them?_

She was behind me, so I could not see her face. Her firm prodding loosened tight muscles, and if human touch couldn't reach the burning, electrified sensation at the base of my spine, the surrounding ligaments released their grip and even my legs could flex without causing torment.

"I have thought, and read, a great deal about it. My interest in philosophy and theology, but also those dreams which haunt me. I don't know what the truth of it is, and any who claim they do are theorists at best. Nothing I have come believe _might_ be true is at odds with your faith, my love. The early Church Fathers deliberately omitted any mention of such things from their teachings, because they were preaching to the uneducated masses and deemed them incapable of digesting such esoteric philosophy."

"Then…your dreams…the things that disturb you so…are visions of what _might_ have been? Or is it the future you see?"

She spoke haltingly, and I could picture that sweet heart-shaped face, so recently flushed with exertion and ecstasy, puckered into a frown of concentration. Victoria had a sharp mind and excellent reasoning, but she processed information in a linear fashion. New concepts were examined from every angle and then neatly filed in their designated category. Abstraction tended to confuse her.

"Perhaps," I stretched out the word, debating whether and how to proceed. I was too pleasantly lethargic in the afterglow of our passion, too entirely comfortable in this golden bubble of intimacy, to want to delve further.

"Or – is it that those things _are happening_, at the same time we are together, here, safe and warm?"

"Some suppose that our choices – the free will your religion teaches is both gift and curse – send us down one path or the other. Miss Eagle's contribution – and I don't endorse it necessarily; she is a stage actress with some incidental talent that frightens her badly – is that my choice sent me down one path, that grim cold world I see in my dreams, whilst yours dragged me back onto this path. One might say, your courage and determination overpowered my cowardice and indecision. So, the duality persists and leaks over."

I rolled over quickly, heedless of the needle-sharp jab of pain in my back, and as swiftly pulled her down so she lay in my arms.

"Or it might all be '_an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato'_. What does it matter, when we know what we have is real?"

"Then my _courage_ will banish all thought of any world in which we are not together, now and for eternity." She sounded as fierce as a tigress, looked as gentle as a kitten nestled in my embrace, and I understood both to be equally true. _Duality_.

I was grateful for that stalwart little mind, so firmly tethered to conventionality. She did not ask the question I dreaded, for which I had no easy answer. If – and it was a stretch to imagine – that other path led through another world, the man I saw there clung tenuously to life. He was broken, defeated and in decline. When _he_ – it was too dizzying to say _I_ – drew his last breath, what would happen to me? I was in robust good health, minor annoyances notwithstanding, but what if some cosmic umbilical linked us at death as at birth? Duality.

♛

His back had stiffened once more while he slept, and it was only with difficulty that Melbourne refrained from cursing. Determined to be done with _resting_, and do his duty as host, he sat up and then stood in one motion. _There; not so very bad._ It was but he refused to consider swallowing more liquid relief.

While Victoria still slept, he rang for his valet and commenced the agonizing business of bathing and dressing. Descending the stairs was only slightly easier than the previous night's ascension had been. While that all-encompassing, immobilizing pain had receded, he visualized a stiletto stabbing and twisting at the base of his spine each time he raised or lowered a foot.

The morning dawned clear, calm and considerably colder than the day before. Bright early rays of sun sparkled on the hoarfrost, and there was general consensus around the breakfast table that it would be a fine day for shooting.

Chafing dishes had been set out on the sideboards in the Continental fashion. Guests would choose what they wished from a substantial selection of eggs, sausages, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, baked halibut steaks, fried whiting, stewed figs, kidneys on toast, roasted marrows, chops and Melton pork pie. 

The usual quotient of Brocket Hall staff had been augmented by servants send down from London. Melbourne's early entrance prompted an unfamiliar footman standing guard at the door to open his mouth as though he would herald news of His Lordship's arrival. _To an empty room?_ Melbourne's lips twitched at the notion, and he gave a little shake of his head.

"We're not nearly so grand here as we are at the palace; you need not announce me." Melbourne had the words on the tip of his tongue, along with an observation that the dining room was as yet nearly vacant. A servant unfamiliar with Brocket Hall informality would not grasp the irony. Instead, he made mental note to share his amusement with Victoria later.

Melbourne's Cuban coffee, especially grown, ground and prepared just as he liked it, was delivered, and he nearly groaned with pleasure when the aroma reached his nostrils. Victoria would take a buttered roll and hot chocolate in her chambers. He was able to swallow a few mouthfuls of rich, slightly acidic coffee and peruse the Times in tranquil silence before the others straggled in, singly and in pairs. The footman insisted upon reciting the full title of each distinguished gentleman, although blessedly not in stentorian tones more suited to an audience chamber with twenty foot ceilings.

When a majority of his guests had been seated, Melbourne judiciously chose only eggs and a single chop. He pointed to his selections, and quietly thanked the footman who served him.

Conversation flowed easily with the disjointed start-and-stop of men more interested in their food. Someone or other would point out an item from the section of newspaper they held. Brocket Hall took delivery of the Manchester Guardian, the Times, Mr. Dickens' _Daily News_ and half a dozen others which covered the political spectrum from end to end.

"His Royal Highness Prince William Albert Augustus, Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland."

A sudden silence descended, as the men at table – several Viscounts, a Marquess, one Duke and the younger son of another – who also happened to be First Lord of the Treasury – laid down their forks and shuffled to their feet.

Monsieur François Pierre Guillaume Guizot bowed deeply with the practiced unctuousness of a seasoned diplomat. Princess Lieven, one of the two females who opted to join the gentlemen at breakfast, curtsied with a grace that belied her sixty-one years.

Lady John nudged her husband, so that they rose in unison. Russell's shoulders jerked forward like a rooster pecking, his bow clumsy and inelegant.

Melbourne had been too intent on assessing the little prince's reaction; he belatedly rose, wincing from the severe jolt that coursed down his legs. Ignoring discomfort, he genuflected with all the elegant grace that had impressed a very young and impressionable queen.

Prince William had been taught to mask his natural shyness at State functions where he appeared as Heir Apparent but he was a sweet, sensitive boy with none of his sister's bold extroverted nature. Melbourne had gently advised Victoria against putting their son on display unnecessarily. Among those to whom the child was genuinely attached – his grandmother and great aunt the Dowager Queen, his uncles Cambridge, Beauvale and Palmerston, his grown Cowper cousins and their children who were his playmates – Liam was a bright, articulate, imaginative and precocious almost-six-year-old. It was otherwise when he was forced to perform before unfamiliar faces. Melbourne cursed under his breath, wishing he had sharply rebuked the overeager footman previously, and damned the man's feelings. It was precisely this sort of situation, awkward, unstructured, with neither scripted ceremony or familial comfort to guide him, that left Liam stricken with tongue-tied, stuttering bashfulness. One especially harsh critic of an earlier such encounter had gone so far as to describe the Queen's eldest son as an _idiot in the making_.

He straightened from his bow and forced a gentle, reassuring smile despite crippling pain.

"You see, gentlemen – and ladies – an aspirant to my Lord Chamberlain's post seeks to keep us on our toes, in the wilds of Hertfordshire. Your Royal Highness, make your bow to our guests. Then come share my breakfast."

Liam executed a nearly-perfect bow, marred only by the Princess Royale jostling him as she pushed past.

"Don't bow to my brother, silly Papa! It's only Liam!"

He might have managed with one child on his knee; two entailed significant rearrangement, until Lily decided she preferred the attentions of her uncle Henry. Safe within the shelter of his encircling arm, Melbourne felt the tension drain from Liam's narrow shoulders. He sat up, brightening, and looked around, listening with interest as Melbourne identified each diner.

James Gascoyne-Cecil, 2nd Marquess of Salisbury, was their near neighbor, and the absentee landlord of Hatfield House and surrounding acreage. _That farm where you saw the dear little lambs_, Melbourne explained, at which reference his son smiled broadly.

Sir George Grey, 2nd Baronet, was their Home Secretary. _He directs the Metropolitan Police, your Peelers – remember at the museum opening, you admired their uniforms?_

Gilbert Elliot, 2nd Earl of Minto. _One of my oldest friends, although I'm damned if I know why he requires so very many names._

Lord and Lady Russell. _Your Mama's Prime Minister, and Lady John's papa is Lord Minto_. _Do you remember their son, young Viscount Amberley? He was taken up by your sister and your cousins, at her birthday fair? They egged him on to sit astride the baby camel._

Melbourne had long thought that no child showed to advantage, when trotted out to be put on display before strangers. Liam and Lily both had been taught to respond with grace, to maintain their dignity in uncomfortable situations, and – with less success – to avoid showing weakness or distress in public settings. Liam generally concealed his anxiety, so long as one those he looked to for security – his Papa, or Billy Cameron, _my soldier_ – were at hand. Lily, two years his junior, never showed fear, but she was quick to express both anger and delight. Of the two, it was Liam who had the more difficult path, and Melbourne sent up a silent prayer that he might have the time to guide and protect him.

No country house weekend in October would be complete without shooting. The land surrounding Brocket Hall was hunted so seldom that game birds were rampant. Loaders and beaters had been brought over from Cecil's lodge, from Panshanger and even Woodhall Park. The children squealed with delight when they saw curly-eared spaniels and Labradors milling about. Cecil would take one group, Palmerston a second, and if each thought he was with the other, so much the better. Melbourne knew better than to try his luck. He waved off the wagons and returned to the house, handing off the children to their nurse with a warning to keep them indoors and away from stray bird shot. Then he gingerly made his way across the polished marble floor, each footfall causing a resurgence of the peculiar burning sensation. He briefly considered attacking the stairs once more, in hopes of finding Victoria still abed. As he was marshaling his resources for the attempt, Melbourne heard familiar voices from the direction of the morning room. Only a few of them, he surmised, but the flattened vowels and swooping high notes told of females pleasurably engaged in discussion of some shared outrage.

He debated the wisdom of making a tactical retreat, but admitted to himself that he rather enjoyed the company of ladies. Whoever the object of their scorn, it might prove amusing to listen. As soon as he drew near enough to catch bits and pieces, he understood the topic to be the revelations of the American medium.

_How could she know – why not, _we_ all do_ – _but such a common creature, and an _American! _I adore the Princess...one of my oldest friends...you will find no such lack of conduct in...what can you expect of..._

Miss Eagle, it seemed, had alluded to a few romantic intrigues among the couples assembled. Melbourne had considered at the time that she handled it well, inferences familiar enough to those in the know, not specific enough to do any real damage, and all delivered with a risqué winking humor that had her audience laughing. She had matured, and developed a greater finesse – polish, if you will – since the last time he had encountered the young woman. Her father still attended her, acting as maestro and introducing each segment of her act. None of her so-called revelations required supernatural intervention; a careful reading of the more sensational press and cultivation of well-placed servants was doubtless the source of her information.

During private readings that followed, the father played a grand piano which had replaced Caro's pipe organ whilst Miss Engle took each subject behind heavy velvet curtains. Melbourne had hung back until halfway through, wanting to be neither first nor conspicuously last.

_She guessed that I – your interesting condition is hardly a secret, even if not formally announced – but Mama, she said _he_ and spoke of him as a grown man_.

Melbourne had not asked what Victoria heard; he felt a quick rush of annoyance, that he had thought only of himself. It had seemed to him as though the spiritualist, if she had one iota of genuine psychic ability, must be uniquely linked to his own peculiar experiences.

"You must not put stock in anything a spiritualist says. You know what the Bible says –" Victoire reverted to the artificially prim, disapproving tone which was sure to set Victoria's teeth on edge. Melbourne strode forward more quickly than he should, and was forced to find support on a chair-back.

"Duchess," he said, bowing over her hand and smiling disarmingly. "Em, you are up early."

Victoria turned her face up, frowning quickly at the distress on his face.

"Sit, William. You must not rush your recovery."

Melbourne did so, sinking heavily into an armchair.

"Pray tell, ma'am, what did the medium say? That she knew of your delicate condition?"

"She did, but acted as though it was no revelation at all, merely the subject of her – what she called a _reading_. She looked into a glass orb, such as the gypsies use, but I think it was only for show." Victoria paused to collect her thoughts. "She could not say whether it would be a boy or a girl, but then she said _him_ on several occasions. He will – I will deliver, it seems, because she hinted that he would reach manhood."

"Tell him what that woman actually said," Emily urged. "William, it was beyond the pale. She clearly has correspondents who have apprised her of our history."

Melbourne saw that Victoria was reluctant. "She said that he would have a 'weakness in the blood', that came from the father. That with care the boy would grow past it. But he must be gently cared for and nurtured and cherished."

"Such folderol!" Emily huffed, and Victoria's mother nodded her agreement.

"Impertinence!" the Duchess said, the words strangled by her evident passion.

"Clearly Miss Eagle had read something of Augustus. But Liam and Lily are fine and well and strong so there's no reason to –"

"But their father was poor dear Albert, Victoria," her mother corrected gently.

Melbourne assumed that Victoire knew – how could she not? – and was simply unable to abandon pretense, even amongst the three of them. She had warmed considerably toward him over the years, but had never explicitly acknowledged the truth.

"Is that all? I see no cause for concern. As you say, she has her information from flesh-and-blood sources. And since we cherish and nurture _all_ of the children, such advice is meaningless yet sounds quite profound."

"And she said that –" Victoria wrinkled her nose in puzzlement. "I must not send any of my children east, or the children of my children or _their _children. None must be wed to any Russian prince, she said most emphatically."

Melbourne's tension eased, and he chuckled. His own amused reaction seemed to soothe Victoria, and he took one of her hands in his own.

"Ma'am, your uncle no longer imagines he can establish a dynasty through our children. Let him marry his own sons and daughters to the Emperor's offspring. Although," Melbourne tickled her palm with his thumb. "I recall you had something of a special _tendresse_ for young Alexander when he was here."

"I think _he_ had a tendresse for _me_," Victoria said primly. "Certainly I need no American to meddle in English affairs, but it is ludicrous to think I would ever allow an English prince or princess to leave us and go to Russia. As for a 'weakness in the blood', the very suggestion was offensive. I'm sure she read, or was told, of your son's misfortune. Certainly our child will be hale and healthy."

Emily deftly changed the subject, to one with far more scandal attached.

"It was quite droll to see the look on Henry's face when she asked if he found Irish housemaids more satisfactory than Englishwomen. I thought he might burst when everyone laughed."


	5. Chapter 5

_Sunday morning the 1st of November 1846 _

_Another glorious autumn day! One heavy rain, a few hours of strong wind, will strip the branches bare, but for the moment we must be grateful for what we have. 'This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.' – Victoria R_

A few of the guests had lingered long enough to accompany Victoria to church in the village, but most had set off immediately after breaking their fast. The servants sent down from London departed, and by one o'clock only the family remained at Brocket Hall. State rooms were shuttered and furniture covered, and the servants lined up to see them off.

Victoria moved slowly down the row, acknowledging each curtsy and bow with a nearly imperceptible nod. She would not abandon all gravitas, for doing so would give offense. These good people took their pride in their station from hers. She thanked each of them, beginning with the senior members of the staff, then footmen, housemaids and even stable boys. She heard William's low rumbling voice behind her, making small jokes, asking after the health of an aged grandmother or some promising youth sent off to further his schooling.

Victoria saw her husband's look of surprise when informed that the children had already departed with their grandmother. Their own coach-and-four stood waiting, and a postillion held open the door. Melbourne handed her in, and took his own place on

As they clattered down the crushed stone drive, Victoria craned her neck for one last look at the stately red brick building, tall windows shuttered against their next visit.

"The tranquility at Brocket Hall quite makes one forget what lies beyond," she murmured, turning back to settle in her seat. She glanced hesitantly at her husband

William looked especially well in his black caped traveling coat. But then her husband's dapper appearance, the set of his shoulders, thick curling hair and handsome features, never failed to move her. Victoria flushed with the warmth of her admiration.

"You look very fine," she said, feeling unaccountably shy. He would always be the distinguished gentleman, embodiment of everything thrilling in a greater world she would never inhabit.

"You flatter me, ma'am." Victoria saw that her words pleased him. His eyes, those wonderful changeable gray eyes, communicated more clearly than mere speech.

"It's not flattery if it's true, Lord M."

They rode in silence, with the weight of what she wanted to say hanging in the air between them.

"When we return – that is, I would like to – I intend to instruct Arthur to issue a decree that – if you don't mind _very_ much, that is –" Victoria knew she was making a mess of it but couldn't seem to speak coherently. Her cheeks grew warm, and she bit her bottom lip.

William was looking at her quizzically, his head cocked and a small smile playing about his lips. But his eyes – _ah, those eyes! they were watchful, as though he suspects –_ Victoria stopped that train of thought, before it could sap her courage. _There is nothing _wrong _in what I propose to do._

"You once said that we could revisit the subject of precedence at a later time."

"I once said a very many things, at one time or another. Was this one of them?" He was teasing her, she knew, but underneath his lighthearted response she felt sudden tension.

"Our son is old enough to ask why others do not bow to you, and why you must bow not only to me, but to him."

"'Old enough'? _Has_ he asked?"

"Others do. If the children don't ask, they certainly perceive the disparity in rank between you and the rest of us," Victoria said in a rush. She knew she sounded defensive and took a deep breath to steady herself, then forged ahead with the speech she had prepared.

"As you surely know, the order of precedence is mine to set. The granting of a _Royal_ title is likewise a prerogative of the Crown. You refused the title _Prince Consort,_ so we compromised with a dukedom. I intend to issue a proclamation that you will henceforth take precedence over all except the Queen. You will be addressed as _His_ _Royal Highness_ the Duke of Melbourne."

Victoria had used up her reserve of cool, detached composure. Once finished, she became only Victoria again, peeking sidelong at the husband whose anger she could not face full-on. It had not been so very long ago that his elevation to dukedom had caused an eruption of pent-up resentment, even anger, between them.

William did not answer. He was silent for so long her resolve nearly crumbled. When he finally spoke, Victoria trembled with relief.

"Very well, ma'am." His words were mild and measured, the tone devoid of feeling. Victoria tried and failed to read the emotion behind them.

"You are not – you do not mind terribly?" She searched his dear face.

William picked up her hand and studied it, as though her glove held some cryptic message to decipher.

"If it is what you wish, ma'am, I can deny you nothing. Might I beg leave to ask one question?"

"Don't tease me, Lord M. You don't need my leave to speak." Victoria wished that they were not facing each other on the leather banquettes. She yearned for his reassuring steadiness to lean on.

"Do you regret marrying a subject, and that subject a retired politician with a patronymic younger than he is, that you are so anxious to make a _Royal Highness_ out of me?"

The moment had passed, and equilibrium between them restored in the gently rhythmic movement of the coach. Victoria basked in the sound of her husband's oh-so-familiar, slightly rasping voice. He commended the comfort provided by Mr. Elliot's invention of _elliptic springs_, and humorously described the more notorious excesses of his youth. _The Four-Horse-Club_ and ridiculous competition to achieve the tallest _high perch phaeton_, Lady Lade's scandalous exploits and the rivalry between fashionable young gentlemen to drive a heavily-laden mail coach – Victoria let the amusing anecdotes wash over her, only half-attending.

As they neared the outskirts of London, she regretfully sat up again. Venetian blinds, verdigris green to match the thickly padded interior, obscured whatever view the public might have of the occupants. Nonetheless, Victoria felt she must assume a position more in keeping with her dignity. William took off his glove and adjusted the set of her bonnet, then gently outlined her lips with his finger.

"Only two weeks remain before the Diplomatic Reception," she said, going over in her mind the November schedule.

There were fixed markers on her calendar, unchanging from year to year. The annual Diplomatic Reception was one of those, a highlight of the London social calendar for peers and the Foreign Service community. Emily, Lady Palmerston, was the natural choice to work with Vice-Chamberlain Lord Howard and the Queen's new Private Secretary, but there were still myriad details which required her approval.

"I wonder that she didn't make the time to inform me of their progress in planning the ball. We certainly had sufficient opportunity this weekend."

"Em will have been hard at work on the reception and ball. I'm sure she did not wish to disturb your peace on the weekend, prosing on about those details which are beneath your notice."

"A trait she shares with her husband then, that wish to relieve my mind of the burden of my duty," Victoria snapped, irritated that he would so instantly leap to his sister's defense where no criticism had been intended.

"Henry will treat any ambiguity as an invitation to substitute his judgment for ours, in matters of foreign policy," Victoria continued, feeling cross.

"'To be informed, to advise and to warn'…but not, I think, to pass judgment or make policy," was William's retort.

Victoria's brows came together in a quick, petulant frown. _He is right, of course_, she thought crossly. _But I know that, and he _knows_ that I know it._ She sniffed, lifting her chin and turned the conversation in a safer direction, making some unobjectionable observation on the blazing red of the trees which lined their route.

♛

Victoria worked diligently all of the following day. As was their custom, William joined her in the morning for a first perusal of the documents requiring her signature. Her Private Secretary had them neatly organized by topic, and had gone so far as to provide supplemental information where a question might arise.

Whilst Victoria quickly reviewed the more unobjectionable bills awaiting her _pro forma_ signature and application of the Great Seal, Melbourne chose an extract of an argument made in the House for closer attention.

"Is there something I should see, Lord M?" she asked, when her stack of documents had diminished and his remained the same.

"Merely a matter of commerce, ma'am. Nothing which would interest you, I'm sure. I will read it if you like."

"This summer past, Mr. Miles asked for a Select Committee to inquire into the circumstances of the granting of our existent contract for the conveyance of the mails from England to Halifax and Boston. The honorable member thinks it impossible that the country should be satisfied with the contracts made with the Cunard line. The performances of the Great Western and Great Britain steam ships is well known, he said, and it is inarguably important to the mercantile community that they should still run." Melbourne spoke so nonchalantly that Victoria assumed there was nothing of particular interest in the subject.

"If I might, ma'am, sir, some feel that the public has a right to know why so large a sum of money was expended on an undertaking which was not open to public competition."

Victoria, her attention always and foremost on Lord M, recognized the quick flash of annoyance which crossed his face, before he composed his expression into one of bland amusement.

"Precisely why this concerns me, er – Arthur, is it?" He knew full well her secretary's name, and Victoria understood his pretend forgetfulness was a subtle snub.

"Ma'am, Mr. Berkley concurred – this was in July, mind you – that it was most unjustifiable to add payments of 10,000l. or 5,000l. to the original contract, without acquainting the public with the reason for such augmentation. It might be worth noting that our concern isn't with the steamship mail contract itself, but with the assertion that 'the public' has a right to know. That's the unanticipated consequence of electoral reform and the proliferation of newspapers. Are we now – excuse me, ma'am, is Your Majesty's government expected to justify every decision not only to its own Parliament, but to the people who sit in coffee shops agitating for further reform as they wave their newspapers about? Where will it end?"

"His Lordship is correct, ma'am. The consequence of progress is further progress, and that of reform is hunger for more empowerment amongst the masses. Some consider this a good thing," the secretary added carefully. He busied himself with the arrangement of those documents bearing _Victoria R_ and awaiting the application of the Seal.

"And some don't," Melbourne snapped.

Hon. Arthur Lascelles was a younger son of the 2nd Earl of Harewood, brother to Lady-in-Waiting Lady Portman and wed to a daughter of Sir Richard Brooke. There was precious little money on either side, Victoria understood, and he was forced to earn his living. He had served in a similar capacity to Wyndham and Beaufort before his appointment to the Queen's service. He was not a garrulous man, but shared his sister's dry wit.

William left when tea was brought in, citing an engagement in his own office with representative members of the Fine Arts Commission, of which he was chairman. Victoria thought that he looked entirely too cheerful at his reprieve, and imagined that his meeting would entail considerably more laughter and less scratching of pens on paper than her own afternoon promised. He took her chin in his hand to turn her face up, and kissed her firmly before strolling out.

At precisely three o'clock her secretary cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at her daily schedule. The children took riding lessons then, and it was an activity she had penciled in, meaning to share.

Liam was mounted on a fully-grown horse, moderately sized and not excessively spirited. The sight of her brother on a _real horse_ was enough to rouse Lily's ready sense of competitiveness. Her own docile pony was led around the smaller ring by a groom.

Victoria watched, applauding their progress, while her own mare was saddled. She had brought Adagio back to London, in the hope of exercising her daily in Hyde Park. She would not ride alone with only a guard and a groom, so in William's absence decided to stay within the courtyard.

The silver mare stood sixteen hands at the withers, and made an imposing sight with her distinctive coloring, well-formed head and graceful movements. Victoria stroked the silky mane and cooed endearments, offering sweets.

Adagio's natural gait was a smooth ambling four-beat footfall movement which in some animals was only achieved with intensive training. Victoria walked her around the perimeter of the parade ground, to show her the limits in each direction, then allowed the mare a swifter running walk that gradually became a slow trot. She and the mare both yearned to gallop, but in the country she Victoria had not dared. She was confident in the saddle and had taken rough ground before, even though hunting never appealed. But just now she was especially cautious to avoid any jarring and jolting, and the sort of mishap which might befall any rider. She was _aware_ of the child she carried, in a way she had not felt with the others.

When she tried to imagine its physical presence, she saw only as an impossibly tiny being – _as big as my thumb? No, surely larger now, in my fourth month?_ And yet, she had a perfect sense of a distinct personality, someone with whom she was becoming intimately acquainted, in a deeply personal way that she could not explain. Victoria knew, without a doubt, that she would carry this child to term. She knew who _he_ would be, who he _was_, and it gave her a comforting sense of complete solidarity. '_Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,_' scripture said, perfectly conveying her own sense of this child's _self_.

With her firstborn, everything was so new and raw – the circumstances of her marriage and the necessary deception they practiced, but also the pain of learning to love so intensely that she nearly lost herself in the process. She had been pleased enough to be with child, as a way of anchoring Lord M into a role he had only grudgingly accepted.

With the second, things had settled into an uneasy sort of peace, but again Lord M had been sent away during the crucial months she needed him most. When he returned, he was still – in the eyes of all but the Queen and Prince Consort – only an advisor, the avuncular senior statesman whose primary charge was guiding Albert in his public role. During both pregnancies, all of her attention was turned outward.

With _this_ little one, Victoria could focus on the child within, on a maternal bond already forming. She wanted above all to give her husband a legitimate heir, to see him standing tall beside her, acknowledged in his own right as the great man she knew him to be. But Victoria was surprised at the strength of her own affectionate longing for this child-to-be. _A boy_, she knew, _not because I want or need it to be, but because that's what he's already told me he is._

Riding was as natural as walking to Victoria, and with that gliding dancer's gait Adagio posed no threat to the infant. They cantered, cornering smoothly, and she used a left lead to match their direction of travel. She took Adagio through parade sequence, a high-stepping marching walk with that beautiful head held high above graceful arched neck. They would make an arresting sight when she reviewed the Troops, the horse's beauty distracting from her rider's inevitable bulk.

When she slowed for the last time, a groom ran forward with the mounting block, but it was William who extended his arm to guide her down. Victoria laid a hand on his sleeve, careful to avoid leaning her weight on him.

"You walked all the way out here to find me?" she asked, pleased and surprised. "How does your back feel?"

"Quite well, ma'am," he answered curtly. Then, he leaned down to speak more softly. "Please don't invalid me before my time."

Victoria felt her cheeks grow warm, feeling rebuked.

"I didn't mean – "

"Never mind, my love. Come, let me take you in."

They parted ways in their shared drawing room. Victoria was pleased to see her bath had already been drawn, and even more pleased to sink into the delightfully warm scented water. It was early to dress for dinner, but with no guests, they could dine alone in the small dining room and then retire to the solitude of their apartment. _I will ask Lord M to read to me, from the most recent chapter of his memoirs_, she decided. Or perhaps I will read to him, from Miss Austen's _Northanger Abbey_. Not, she decided, from Miss Eden's _Letters from Kabul_.

_There will be only two of us in the bedroom tonight_, she decided in ruling out Emily Eden's excellent observations of life in India. William's old friend, the woman everyone had wanted him to marry, would be an unwanted distraction.

Those early months and years, when they spent as much as six hours a day together, and the conversation flowed effortlessly, stretched out in her memory golden, iridescent, two souls rediscovering one another. _Rediscovering_ _each other,_ she repeated, savoring the distinction. _Because surely, we've known each other for all eternity._

Victoria chose her own gown, considering and rejecting several choices before settling on a wine-colored silk taffeta. She asked for her hair to be fastened in a low chignon that rested just above the nape of her neck. The style required only a few pins, and she visualized her husband loosening it himself and spreading the tumbled waves over her breasts.

She tapped softly on the door between their dressing rooms, then stepped through. Neither William nor his valet were in sight, but the detritus of his toilette was strewn about. Her attention was captured by an elongated moving shadow in the bedchamber beyond.

He stood at the bureau, examining the contents of small wooden chest.

For a moment, confused by some interplay of flickering light and shadow, she saw him as a stranger might. Tall, even bent to his task, an almost sinister black-clad figure, he might be a specter from some earlier, more elegant time. _The Regency years_, Victoria thought, when society exuberantly embraced hedonism, before the pendulum inevitably swung once more.

She caressed his figure with her eyes, the wide shoulders tapering to narrow hips and long, well-shaped legs. Victoria was so entranced by his appearance that it took a moment to register the meaning of his attire, the black silk stockings and satin breeches he despised, reserved for formal occasions.

"You're going out?" Victoria blurted, heedless of the edge in her voice.


	6. Chapter 6

While Victoria and the children went off to Sunday services Melbourne had roamed listlessly through the rooms of his home. A bevy of servants bustled about, readying the Hall for its dormancy. Leaving the tranquility of his modest estate and returning to the ceaseless hive of activity which waited in London seemed a fit metaphor for the two halves of his life. Privately, the almost painfully sweet intimacy of marriage and family, and then harsh public scrutiny. All the foibles and faults which were considered no more than mildly eccentric in William Lamb must be ruthlessly suppressed in one who stood so close to the Crown. He was glad of the roughly two-and-a-half hours it took to travel from one point on the compass to the other.

It was all worth the price and more, Melbourne hurriedly countered, to that whisper of discontent in his mind. To have won the heart of a girl and to have the privilege of molding and shaping her, not as a sovereign, but as the woman she would be for the rest of her days, was an illimitable privilege. To him, and only him, she showed her true face, her avid, animated, _passionate_ hunger for love and for life.

He felt something turn over in his loins, a spark come alive, at the memory of that _passion_. Melbourne found the deepest satisfaction in her responses and the way they exponentially magnified his own. It gave such a heady sensation of power – _omnipotence_ – to feel her quicken under his touch, his lips, his hands, trembling and convulsing as if she might combust from her own volcanic heat.

_How long has it been?_

He knew, of course he did, that some unpleasantness loomed. Victoria rarely behaved with such high-handedness, and never when it involved the children. She was determined that at least he would be an equal partner in the private realm, and in fact left most decisions regarding the children to him.

_Perhaps no more than Liam's birthday_, he told himself hopefully. But Victoria was incapable of deception. Her face was open and guileless, and only an icy mask of _hauteur_ could mask her thoughts and feelings. Whether she knew it or not, it was that face he saw as soon as he took his seat in the carriage beside her.

Her announcement only mildly surprised him. It had indeed been a topic long deferred, his place in the order of precedence.

Melbourne wanted to revive the old Whig contempt for the monarchy they claimed to despise. But even then, in his long-ago youth, they had all been ardent royalists at heart. It was as much a pose as their supposed desire for democratic reform and admiration for the revolutions sweeping Europe. Push comes to shove, they all upheld the _status quo_, shedding youthful idealism like an outgrown suit of clothes.

He might say it didn't matter, by which title he was called, or to whom he bowed and from whom he received obeisance. But it _did_ matter a great deal, or _would_, had he earned such recognition in office. But King William IV, although he offered the Garter, had accepted a Whig government only grudgingly.

His own thoughts on the subject were too confusing and tangled, to resist further. He might have let it go with _as you say, ma'am_, had not Victoria withdrawn so completely behind that impenetrable mask. Even her voice had none of its girlish swoops, or the low seductive murmur she could effect on occasion. It was her autocratic manner which rankled.

That low-grade simmering dissatisfaction lingered, although he had strove valiantly to mask it, and each new irritation compounded the rest.

♛

Her new Private Secretary was the first one he had not suggested for the job. By rights, his nephew Will Cowper should still have it, and would, if he hadn't persisted in maintaining close ties to the Norton woman. Melbourne realized he did not even know how Lascelles had earned the appointment. Through his sister, seemingly self-effacing since she returned from that enforced leave of absence?

_Still meddling, Lady Portman_? Melbourne wondered.

Victoria's working schedule varied little from day to day. Mornings from nine until one, she would first go through the morning's red box while Melbourne dealt with whatever reached them by non-governmental means. Her boxes could be opened only by a special key, which remained in the Queen's sole possession. Each morning they would be brimming with documents that required her attention – Foreign Office dispatches, budget documents, cabinet minutes, orders requiring her signature, and now, thanks to the reorganized secret services, classified foreign intelligence reports from the Duke of Bedford's office. Getting Billy Cameron's domestic division of the same service to submit anything resembling an official report required a Herculean effort that so far showed only variable success.

Their desks abutted one another, and Victoria would frequently pass something to Melbourne for his opinion. They understood each other so well that it took only a brief perusal to grasp whatever had piqued her interest, and then Melbourne would offer a pithy description of the people, places or issues as he saw them.

Their working time was, by custom, sacrosanct, a tradition carried over from the early days, when Melbourne was her Prime Minister and she had resolved to meet with each of her ministers entirely alone. True, that circumstance no longer existed, and had not for some years, but he hadn't realized how jealous he was of their special _working_ intimacy until he found an interloper installed in his place.

Not _my_ place, he told himself, while his temper simmered. Victoria's new secretary was a pale, rabbity-looking fellow with a sober, subservient manner who hastened to wait upon Melbourne, bending his neck in obeisance, then carefully aligning pens, inkpot and papers before him. It was the _fact_ of a third person in the room that grated, nearly as much as the man's bloody _efficiency._ He hovered, he anticipated, and he was quick to answer whatever question Victoria had.

When Arthur Lascelles began pontificating on that silly, inconsequential _Cunard_ matter – more accurately, on the slippery slope of what he called accountability – and Melbourne saw Victoria listening attentively, he had reverted to old form and uttered some flippant aside. He had struggled, with variable success, to suppress that old smokescreen nonchalance in dealings with the new, very impressionable queen. Had they been alone, he would have explained more cogently, if she'd asked, the role of expediency in keeping the wheels of government and industry turning in sync. Just as he had foreseen in '34, the unavoidable consequence of reforming the so-called Rotten Boroughs. When he had conceded to the inevitable in championing the Reform Bill, he had done so with the deepest regret. It _was_ a slippery slope, opening up the voter rolls and allowing the unlanded, uneducated, unschooled and unwashed masses to have a voice in affairs of state beyond their ability to even comprehend.

Melbourne lasted less than an hour, before pushing back his chair from the desk and announcing the need to attend to some pressing – and undefined – business elsewhere. He decided that at the first opportunity which presented itself, he would ask Victoria to dispense with her secretary when he himself was present. _If_, that is, she intended to continue delegating at least some of her work to him, and have him continue to represent her as a cabinet-level minister without portfolio_._

Those early months, when they spent as much as six hours a day together, remained in memory the most blissful of Melbourne's life. It was, he remembered, as though their hearts, minds and souls had been reunited after an endless absence. They had talked and laughed, he had reminisced while she thirstily drank in every memory he shared, voraciously consumed every observation he offered. The challenge then had been to hold back, so as not to overwhelm or unduly influence her. It was only natural that after almost a decade that early intensity had faded, natural even that the urgency of barely suppressed longing between them would not be sustained after consummation, even less once there was no longer any need for restraint, secrecy and stolen passion.

When he found himself wistfully recalling that giddy all-consuming new love, Melbourne scoffed at his own sentimental folly. And yet, he was damned if he would surrender these working hours together, the very basis of everything that had followed and defined them. Oh yes, that cow-eyed new secretary would have to go, at least as far as the working offices at the far end of the Palace.

♛

Shortly after three o'clock Melbourne went in search of her. Victoria had thus far kept her resolution to become a more actively involved parent. The children were permitted to escape their schoolroom at three, to have a riding lesson. On alternate days, they would meet with dancing and fencing masters – both children, both lessons, since Lily would not tolerate being relegated to any activity deemed suitable for only her sex.

Melbourne hoped to find Victoria in the Mews. They would watch the children together, and the shared bond of parental admiration would dispel that odd, lingering tension between them, was Melbourne's thought.

Unfortunately, he was delayed, not once but twice, by his own secretary and a messenger from Westminster, so that when he reached the fenced ring behind the stable block he was told that Her Majesty had been and gone. Lily and Liam were delighted to see him, and he resigned himself to postponing the planned reconciliation.

Prince William trotted around the larger ring. The boy posted well, Melbourne saw, his seat good and posture excellent. Even more importantly, he sat easily and the set of his shoulders and his relaxed demeanor conveyed confidence as well as real enjoyment.

"He does well, Your Lordship," the riding master said.

He was really only a senior groom, retired from a cavalry regiment. The man limped badly from an old injury and had only a few teeth left in his mouth, but Victoria had been struck by his gentle, intuitive communion with the animals under his care.

"That is what we need the children to learn," she had said. "That there must be a real bond between horse and rider. We need the consent of these animals, else there is no real agreement. Anyone who thinks to rule by fear can never establish a true partnership with his horse."

Victoria was an excellent horsewoman, and her affinity for animals was legendary, if a bit trying when some new acquisition left a telltale sign of its presence on the bedchamber carpet or kept her up overnight nursing a sick pet. Melbourne himself was a pedestrian rider, considered horses mere transportation, and left the choice of stock to whatever caught the eye of his coachman. Even acquiring the magnificent mare Adagio had been a matter of luck and inspiration.

"He looks well in the saddle, if somewhat small on the back of that beast," Melbourne answered. He leaned his forearms on the top rail and the riding master followed suit.

"Thirteen 'ands, Your Lordship. Hardly bigger than the Welsh pony."

Lily was atop the smaller animal Liam had ridden until recently. It was not the same battered old mine pony which Cameron had once brought him. That creature still flourished, spending his days gumming mash and basking in the sun, but was no longer asked to carry weight on its back. The children visited their old friend faithfully, bringing him treats and brushing his long mane until it gleamed.

This new pony was a spry youthful version of that codger, yet Melbourne had expressed reservations about allowing a three year old to ride anything but the hobby horse in her nursery. He allowed it only with the stipulation that it be led by two grooms, one to a side, and Lily suffer the indignity of a strap around her small waist.

When she saw her father she bounced up and down in the saddle, loosening her restraint and exciting the pony so that he nearly broke free of his handlers. Melbourne rushed forward, his arms extended to catch her, and she propelled herself off through the air into his arms.

She cupped her hands to whisper in his ear, expressing her concern lest she injure the feelings of the pony. "I want a _real_ horse, Papa. Not a baby horse. I'm _not_ a baby anymore."

She wanted a real horse, Lily said, and proceeded to elucidate the reasons by bending back one chubby finger at a time. _Ride like Mama_ was paramount, _and see my soldiers too._ A reference, Melbourne assumed, to her mother's parade review of the troops.

"You have a _real_ horse, Lily, one suited to your size," he told her in answer.

"I'm _not_ a baby."

"You most certainly are not. Now, are you done for the day? What comes next?"

Caring for the animals they rode was one of Victoria's tenets. They would perform the tasks suited to their size, but with no regard for their rank or station. Lily grumbled, but followed her grooms to serve water and dab inexpertly at the pony's flanks with a soft cloth.

Melbourne turned his attention back to Liam. The boy took his horse through the gaits his riding master called out, glancing periodically in his father's direction. Melbourne's heart clenched with pride, affection and no small degree of wonder, that this beautiful child was his. Physically beautiful, but more importantly, sweet, sensitive, kind-hearted and careful to show others courtesy and respect. Melbourne's mind went back to the early days, when the sinister Baron Stockmar had cast his long shadow over the Court, imagining that he would shape and mold the Heir to the Throne.

Stockmar's grim influence had sapped all the joy from Albert's youth and instilled in its place sober duty and self-denial. Stockmar had _instilled_ something darker as well, was Melbourne's suspicion. Perhaps the Coburg prince would have always had an affinity for acts some considered unnatural, and perhaps Stockmar had sensed that latent tendency, but it gave him no right to abuse his position as tutor and physician to a lonely near-parentless adolescent. Albert, neglected by his father and abandoned by his mother, had hungered for affection and warmth and Stockmar had filled those needs, cementing his hold over the boy. Melbourne had made it clear that whatever the limit of his unacknowledged parental rights, he would do what was necessary to deny Baron Stockmar that same opportunity with Liam.

Liam, with only the slightest pressure of his knees, turned neatly in the ring and guided his horse to the mounting block. Melbourne wanted to lift his son down but held back, admiring the neat economical motion with which Liam dismounted. He slid the final inches, until his toes found the block, and then handed the reins to a waiting groom.

"I have to curry Major now, Papa," Liam said apologetically.

"Certainly, that is important. Will you walk with me first?" The boy turned to his riding master and politely sought permission, before taking Melbourne's hand.

"Did Mama see you ride today?" he asked, curious.

"Oh yes. Then she took her own horse out."

Melbourne hesitated, feeling a cad for questioning the boy.

"Did you ask Mama about my title? About…" Melbourne sought the right words, words a child might have used. "About bowing?"

Liam's sandy brows came together as he parsed the question. Then he raised his eyes hesitantly.

"I asked Mama if you could be a Highness too. So that you do not bow to me, even in company. I told her that if she could not make you a Highness, then when I am a man, I will make you one."

Melbourne felt absurdly relieved that at least she had not made up that anecdotal argument. He suddenly felt chagrined by his own doubt.

"You will be King someday. That is why I bow. But if you and Mama would like me to be a Highness, then Highness I shall be."

"Can you be King too, Papa?" Liam asked hopefully. "Mama is Queen and you are her husband. I think you should be King."

Melbourne huffed a little laugh and crouched at eye level with his son.

"No, my darling boy, I cannot be King. England does not need a King; she has a great Queen." He drew the child into an embrace, hugging him and kissing his soft cheek.

He found Victoria in the central courtyard, riding side-saddle on the silver mare. She was an excellent horsewoman who despised riding side-saddle, but did so with great aplomb when circumstances required.

_If only she could see herself as I see her, _Melbourne thought, feeling a sudden pang of desire so strong it became longing. Her small stature was nearly irrelevant, so impressive was her dignity, her posture – perfectly erect without stiffness – and that dear face in profile.

To his eyes, Victoria was and always had been perfect, in appearance and in every other way. Her dark hair was glossy and fell in natural waves, and her eyes were an impossible shade of dark blue against that creamy skin. When she smiled she was especially enchanting, because her smile transformed her whole face, lighting it from within. Victoria was much prettier in life than she was in any painting, which captured only the icon and not the enchanting flesh-and-blood woman.

Melbourne wanted, needed, to whisk her away. To carry her off to their bedchamber, lock the doors and draw the drapes and reestablish connection the only way he knew. He was stunned to realize that at the core of his – their – recent tension was this sense that she had slipped away. That she was, if not distracted, then lost in her own thoughts and not entirely mindful of him. It was an impossible, ephemeral sense, that the perfect understanding between them had slipped out of kilter. That he no longer occupied central space in her mind, that he was no longer at the forefront of her every thought.

_Am I so vain?_ He asked himself. _That I must be the center of her attention? We are no longer new lovers, not even _secret_ lovers, which in itself added a certain luster_. As Queen she carries a great burden of responsibility, but if we were butcher, baker or candlestick maker, if I were a sheep farmer and she wielded a loom, we would still have a business to run, a living to earn, children to raise…

Logic had no part in his primal longing. Not all men shared the same need for reciprocity, he knew, it was arguably not a lover's generosity but rather that feeling of connection and control which were its own reward. But if she were the beneficiary, did it matter that he found his own pleasure in hers? He had a sudden savage urge to take her at once, to take her in a most primitive way until he found his balance again.

_Oh, Victoria,_ he muttered under his breath. _How long has it been, since you wanted me as I want you?_

Instead he watched her as she rode around the perimeter of the courtyard, the magnificent silver mare seeming to glide, about to take flight.

♛

They had no guests, so he assumed she would privately. Melbourne was surprised to see the care Victoria had taken with her toilette. Her dark red gown flattered and her eyes were especially lovely.

He found the cuff links he had been looking for and snapped shut the lid of his trinket box.

"You look lovely tonight," he murmured, wanting to stroke the shimmering blood red silk, imagining how it – and her – would feel under his hands.

"You're going out?" she had asked, her voice unusually shrill.

"The Arts Commission, ma'am. It's in the Court Circular. We are to have our portrait done as a group, and Mr. Partridge will do some sketches while the speeches are made."

It was obvious to Melbourne as he spoke that Victoria had not been aware – had not _recalled_, since she was informed of every official engagement and would have signed off on the published Circular. She was incapable of concealing her thoughts and emotions – they showed clearly on her face, in her eyes. In private, when she did not hide behind the pleasantly impassive public mask of a Queen, he was uniquely privileged to see the woman behind the Throne. _At least that hasn't changed,_ Melbourne thought.

"Oh – yes, of course," Victoria said unconvincingly. She looked at him – studied him. "You look especially well tonight. You always do, in formal attire."

"Thank you, ma'am," Melbourne replied. He was waiting for the petulance, for Victoria to pout and storm. He was not rewarded.

"Very well," she finally responded. "I will dine in chambers and retire early. I am quite fatigued, from the country perhaps. I will be asleep when you come in, so I will wish you a good evening now."

_Was she _relieved? Melbourne wondered, incredulous. There was no undertone which promised a storm brewing; her cool clear voice was calm, her expression affectionate and…._what? kind?_ How absurd.

"Victoria – I am sorry if you weren't aware that this was the evening. I could send word – surely there images of me, that Partridge can paint me in –"

"No, not at all, William. Do go and have a wonderful time."

_Fine Arts Commission 1846 - John Partridge (Lord Melbourne right of center_)


	7. Chapter 7

Charles Barry, 1846

* * *

Melbourne knew, with no false modesty, that he had long been considered a notable raconteur. Those same critics who had vociferously condemned his performance in office, party allies grumbling that he was too prone to see all sides of every argument, and had made no powerful speeches advancing any measure, clamored for his presence at their soirees. Brooks was his club, but he was welcomed in any he chose to visit and had been proposed and seconded so often that his secretary composed a stock reply to those select cards of nomination. Long before his illustrious marriage, Melbourne had been asked to sit on any number of commissions and his patronage sought for bodies as diverse as The Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge and the Royal Agricultural Society.

He enjoyed the easy convivial discourse to be found in the rarefied atmosphere of gentlemen's clubs, and especially savored the esoteric, free-ranging conversation between like-minded fellows, discourse which might dip into Eastern philosophy, Shakespeare's early unpublished works or the sermons of Sydney Smith.

The fewer such dinners he participated in, the more he found himself looking forward to those he did grace with his presence. Melbourne was well-enough known in society that while his appearance was greeted with hearty greetings, his more frequent absences were attributed to the demands of marriage and family, a circumstance shared by more than a few peers of his age. None were crass enough, at least in his hearing, to make reference to _whom_ he was married, or that the firstborn of that family would someday be the King to whom their own children bowed.

Melbourne handed off his hat and red-lined cape, then paused momentarily to collect his thoughts. He was tolerably well-pleased at his success in setting aside a temptation to ruminate, and made up his mind to be fully _present_. Most of the Commissioners had turned out, he saw, estimating at least sixteen of them already standing about in groups of two and three, with more entering behind him. It was to be a working meeting, with Charles Barry presenting a progress report and receiving the joint congratulations of this supervising board. Melbourne saw Barry, talking animatedly to Macaulay and Henry Pelham, the Duke of Newcastle.

Waiters were circulating, bearing bottles and glasses. Melbourne automatically chose the dry champagne to which he was generally restricted and then, defiantly, took a French brandy instead.

The dinner was lavish by the standards to which Melbourne had become accustomed. Victoria viewed food as no more than fuel, and adhered scrupulously to the restricted diet physicians recommended. His first and second apoplectic strokes could not be directly attributed to overindulgence, or so Melbourne privately opined, but he was no match for the combined arguments of one very determined spouse and her phalanx of palace physicians.

If he occasionally chafed at the reforming of his previous habits at table, it was not worth the effort to incur her quaintly protective, nearly maternal wrath, and he soon learned not to miss what he did not have.

Without deciding consciously to rebel – even partially aware of the ridiculousness of such an unworthy motive – Melbourne helped himself to every dish which passed, accepting oysters, lobster patties, beefsteaks in mushrooms and browned butter. _If I dine as a bachelor on this occasion, it will serve her right to see me laid up with dyspepsia. _Even that private thought was expressed in jest and Melbourne chuckled under his breath, recognizing the humor in such a silly retribution.

He was seated in the center of the table, in recognition of his chairmanship, with Charles Barry on his left and Sir Robert Inglis, a Tory MP and a vice-president of the Society of Antiquaries, on his right. Francis Egerton, 1st Earl of Ellesmere, had already earned some fame as a traveler and connoisseur of art, and he had been tapped to acknowledge Barry's efforts in seeing the new Palace of Westminster to its current state. The interiors would be fully completed in all their splendor within the next five years, he had promised.

"Excuse me?" he had been nodding absently, only half paying attention, until Barry imparted his startling news.

"I said, I would be sorry to lose George. I trust after his marriage he will return to us, if the Earl of Lichfield permits his new son-in-law to engage in a profession."

"George Von Wettin is to marry a daughter of Anson's?"

"Yes indeed, I thought he might have informed – well, never mind, George is reluctant to take advantage of his past connection to our late Royal Highness. And it's _Wettin_ now; he has renounced any claim to his family's titles, and petitioned for British citizenship."

Melbourne shook his head, wondering why the boy – no longer a boy, George must be nearing thirty by now – had not mentioned it when he was in Venice. Or why he wanted any wife.

"He's had to jump through hoops, to marry that – if I don't judge too harshly – horse-faced bluestocking. I daresay I'm prejudiced against the family, only because of Lichfield's terms."

As Melbourne listened, he made up his mind that they must do something for George. A peerage? But then Barry must have one too. A financial settlement, certainly – persuade him to accept a Court sinecure? Make it plain in doing so that his future father-in-law must hold him in higher regard than he had done thus far.

Just then the table was cleared and cigars and brandy put out. Melbourne called for a cognac.

Partridge had chosen an idealized setting for the picture, grouping a number of famous paintings and sculptures by English artists around the room. A long covered table had been placed, lined with chairs along one side.

They assembled in order, Melbourne once again at the center. There was precious little to do while they sat, until entertainment arrived in the form of several Sadler's Wells actresses. Phelps himself accompanied them, presumably to protect what remained of the virtue of his voluptuous stage actresses, and they performed comedy skits using the famed actor as a foil for their jests and bawdy songs.

Whether because his identity was known and pointed out, or simply because he occupied a prominent position directly in front of them, Melbourne found himself on the receiving end of head-tossing come hither glances. It was all done in humor and he played along, laughing with the rest at their suggestive rhymes. Drink flowed freely, and he allowed his glass to be refilled, feeling better than he had in days.

Partridge made no announcement when his labor had ended, and only gradually it was noticed that his easel and brushes had been packed away. Melbourne took it upon himself to declare the meeting adjourned, and good-naturedly turned down all suggestions they adjourn to this-or-that club.

The carriage was cold – he disdained the comfort of hot bricks or even a small brazier to travel the few miles which ahead – and a steady drizzle thickened the air. He watched their progress, liking the look of the city by night, now that lamps burned brightly at intervals. But it was that first glimpse of the palace he looked forward to seeing, a bastion of light and warmth in the darkness.

His head was only modestly fuzzy, and Melbourne looked forward to sharing the details of his evening. Victoria always looked forward to hearing his impressions, nearly as much as he looked forward to the telling.

His valet had dutifully sat up, but had not managed to remain awake. Melbourne could undress himself, if only his tailcoat was not so exactly molded to his shape. _Perhaps_…he imagined those times her small soft hands had performed that office.

_If she is asleep I won't wake her – deliberately, that is. _He grinned roguishly in the dark, moving past the snoring valet.

Victoria's bedchamber was nearly dark. The long drapes were closed, but moonlight provided illumination enough for him to find his way to the canopied bed. She lay on her back, arms crossed over her waist, dark hair fanned out on the pillow.

"Victoria…?" Melbourne whispered her name, and was immediately rewarded by the sight of her smile.

"William."

"Shall I leave you and sleep in –"

"No! Whatever for?" Melbourne exhaled, releasing tension he had not known he was holding. _Surely not as bad as all that. Did you think she would send you away?_

"No reason. Baines is asleep in his chair, and I hadn't the heart to wake him. Will you?"

Victoria sat up and knelt on the bed, easing the black coat from his shoulders. She picked up one hand and unfastened the stud at his cuff, then repeated her action with the other. Rather than releasing it, she raised his palm to her cheek.

"I've been out of sorts," she whispered, and he could feel her breath on his wrist.

"You, ma'am? Never!"

Melbourne sat on the side of the bed and took off shoes and stockings, then unknotted his cravat and threw it aside. Victoria had remained kneeling behind him, her arms around his waist.

He finished the process of undressing quickly, and got into bed beside her. When he lifted his arm Victoria immediately moved against him, pillowing her head on his shoulder.

"Tell me about your meeting," she invited.

Melbourne told her who had been present, and what they had said, and they wondered together about Barry's curious announcement. Victoria was in complete accord with his plan to bestow a peerage – "But first George must come to see us and explain why we've been kept in the dark."

Melbourne expansively added bits of color, wry asides and some modest impressions, and Victoria listened avidly, giggling when he gently mimicked an officious air, a pretentious manner or someone's untoward boasting. _This_, he knew, _is what I live for. This has been the air that I breathe, cool water and a fire to warm me, for so long that I cannot live without it._ _My precious girl!_

"Petticoats above their ankles! And – and ribbons on their drawers?" Victoria's girlish tone was gleeful, at such a shocking display of wantonness. She was not naïve, and certainly not prudish – but her appetite for such naughty novelties could only satisfied in private, in the safety and protection of her husband's arms.

"Ribbons on their drawers," he affirmed. His voice was not one which lent itself to singing, but he bravely attempted to replicate one of the more risqué recitations.

_"'When to England he came, with his prick in a flame, He shewed it his Hostess on landing, Who spread its renown thro' all parts of the town, As a pintle past all understanding. So much there was said of its snout and its head, That they called it the great Janissary: Not a lady could sleep till she got a sly peep At the great Plenipotentiary.'"_

She was breathless from giggling when he finished.

"Hardly an original, ma'am, in fact one of Prinny's favorite tunes when I was a boy. It was somewhat entertaining when Mr. Phelps enacted the role –" and he described the hilarity that ensured when the famed actor nonchalantly strode about with massively tented trousers.

Melbourne was enchanted by the sight of her dear little face, flushed prettily, features animated, eyes shining…and entirely focused on him. He felt his eyes moisten with love and gratitude, and ducked his head to kiss her.

Victoria's lips were soft and yielding and he deepened the kiss, wanting to drink in her essence and exchange it for his. He drew her into his arms, hands running down the length of her back, over rounded hips and around to…

Melbourne felt her stiffen imperceptibly, and their communion was broken. He raised his head, searched her face for some indication of what had prompted that infinitesimal recoil.

"Sweetheart…?" he asked finally. She lowered her eyes, the long fringe of lashes concealing what he might otherwise see. Just as quickly, she raised them again, showing him a bright, open – and entirely false, he thought – smile.

"Are you – do you want to sleep? Shall I leave you?"

"No!" She answered again, so firmly it was nearly a shout. "Why do you keep asking me that? Do _you_ want to leave _me?_"

"Of course not. I only thought – never mind. Come here then, and let me hold you until you sleep."

Melbourne lifted his arm in invitation, wanting to restore the fragile harmony, so easily broken. Instead of returning to his embrace, Victoria entirely surprised him by sliding nimbly down and raising the hem of his nightshirt. She knew exactly what pleased him, and how best to elicit a response – and he was still half-ready when she found him. He surged up to meet her mouth, and dragged in a gasping sigh. Then he gently took hold of her arms and shifted her away.

"No," he said. "No."

She looked adorably confused, tangled hair framing her face, nightdress sliding off on shoulder.

"Don't you – I want to –"

"No, _thank you_. I am not ungrateful for your ministrations, but it is not what I hoped for."

Melbourne cursed the need for words. Some things should not have to be expressed aloud; some thoughts and feelings were best communicated by other means, but somehow they had slipped out of sync again.

"Tell me," he prompted.

"Tell you what?" Victoria's expression was honestly confused, he thought – but not entirely truthful either.

"Tell me what you're feeling. Are you unwell? Is it your condition? Or is it something – or someone – else on your mind, that you retreat from me?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I only – I wanted to please you, to give you pleasure. I don’t know what you mean by –" she gasped, suddenly horrified. "What do you mean, 'someone else'? Do you think I – a _man_? How could you?"

"I don't know what I think, darling. I only know that something has come between us, and I would very much like to understand. If you are experiencing some – some discomfort, from your condition, then please tell me. I understand your modesty but I think there is little we don't know of one another. Or – is this some foolishness about your increase? Silly girl, the sight of our child growing within you only makes you more beautiful, more desirable."

"Oh, William – I can't – it's so difficult to explain. It's difficult for _me_ to understand, and would be impossible for you."

"Please try," he said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Victoria ducked her head shyly, and turned around to recline against him. _So she doesn't have to look at me?_ Melbourne wondered.

"It's different this time," she began haltingly. "I – of course, I was pleased to know each time I was expecting but I never had a sense of the…the person our child would be. Sometimes I think I don't even truly know Liam and Lily now, not as you do. You are _friends_ with our children, they talk to you, tell you their thoughts, their little secrets. This time, this baby – oh, William, I already _know_ him. He's so very real. Does that make sense?"

Melbourne struggled to understand her meaning. She was being honest, he knew, and doing her very best to explain something that clearly meant a great deal to her.

"And because you are more attuned to this child – may I remind you that you were very young, and had a great deal going on during each of your other pregnancies, so you must not feel as though you were an inattentive or uncaring mother? – you – what? No longer feel attuned to me? You cannot be a wife and a mother at once?"

As soon as he heard his own words, Melbourne realized that he sounded like a petulant self-involved child. Needy, greedy and demanding. He was mortified at confessing such an unworthy emotion.

"If I remember, some catty female had warned you off intimacy when you were expecting Liam, for fear it would harm the child. Is that it? Do you think that if I enter you it would cause injury?"

"No, dearest, no, never that. Only – I can't bring myself to – it is as if he is watching us, feeling what I feel, seeing through my eyes. Does that sound quite mad?"

_Yes_, was his first thought. Thankfully, he held his tongue.

"Perhaps you were right and I can't understand exactly what you're feeling. But I promise to try, if only you will try to share it with me. I can do without that particular act, if I must – but I cannot do without _you_."

_Now I've resorted to pleading. _Melbourne could retract nothing. If they were to regain that spiritual union, the perfect understanding between them, then they both must open their hearts.

"Oh, my dearest darling! I love you with all my heart and soul and being! That will never change, surely you know that. I can, I want to love you in other ways. I just – I find I can't quite enter into the – the spirit of it myself. That doesn't mean I don't derive tremendous satisfaction from pleasing you…" Victoria pushed her hair back, revealing her face – sweet, troubled, devoted, distressed.

"I thank you for your generosity, ma'am," he said drily, then smirked to show her he was teasing. "Has it occurred to you that I feel likewise? That I derive a great deal of my own desire, my own pleasure, from seeing and feeling _your_ pleasure?"

Melbourne abruptly decided that quite enough had been _said_ on the subject. He fastidiously pulled down her night dress to cover her legs and drew up the bed covers. Then he snuffed the bedside candle and turned onto his side, curving his long form around her smaller one.

"May I kiss you?" he whispered hoarsely. "No more than that, unless you wish it. If you want only to sleep in my arms, then let me hold you until morning."

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

Melbourne threw himself into work. It was in the shared work of running a nation that their deepest, earliest bond had been forged. The new secretary was de facto relegated to clerk status – _truly, that was my intent all along_, Victoria insisted – and had been assigned a small room formerly used by the equerries on duty. The morning hours were again reserved for the two of them to labor side-by-side, each of them perusing the documents which were sent to the sovereign's attention by her ministers. Notes in Victoria's neat schoolgirl hand joined her husband's barely legible scrawl to be transcribed by Lascelles, who came only when summoned and withdrew promptly when excused.

In the afternoons, Victoria would hold private audiences. At these, she to receive the credentials of some lesser diplomat, meet some worthy, award a commendation. If Melbourne's presence was not specifically requested, he would spend those hours in the expanded children's apartment. There, he would read or scribble in the bound books which would be published as his memoirs, basking in the proximity of the children. Liam studied mathematics and natural science with a Vice Provost of Eton and Lily took French lessons with the pretty new governess, Madame Hocédé. At three o'clock, if Victoria did not appear to watch the children at their dancing, fencing and riding, he would go alone to the barre, gymnasium or stable.

After several false starts, they had revived Albert's evening _salon_s. Melbourne invited the leading lights and up-and-comers in the fields of medicine, art, religion, literature, theatre and even business to attend an informal monthly dinner. Melbourne found he rather enjoyed hosting these gatherings. He was able to employ his natural gregariousness and quirky humor, traits which found little outlet in official engagements. and men who had little in common talked long into the night, free ranging discourse that exactly suited Melbourne's eclectic interests. Victoria rarely intruded, and when she did she showed herself not as the Queen but only as the wife of their host – a pretty pretense to avoid equally the necessity of vetting those who were formally _received_ at court, and of lending an air of artificiality to the comfortable discourse between these men of intellect and innovation. Melbourne had to admit that he rather enjoyed leading these intellectual soirées in his own right.

Their schedule was scripted, and that schedule gave structure to their days. And at the end of each evening, when they closed the door, and it was only the two of them, Melbourne would do as he'd always done. He would regale her with penetrating character assessments and off-the-cuff, irreverent observations, gossip from society and politics seasoned with the sort of spicy gossip she savored. She listened appreciatively, giggling at some of his more droll vignettes. Victoria had not banished him from her bed; far from it, she curled at his side like a child, and she would innocently throw a bare leg over his, or roll onto her side and press her backside against his hip. Holding her in the darkness, alone in the bed he was privileged to share, he told himself it was enough, and it was.

Emily's pragmatic reassurance that there was nothing really amiss, delivered with eye-rolling disdain, echoed the more stilted pronouncement of the physician. Pregnancy brought all sorts of changes which no man could fully comprehend, they both told him. Husbands sought consolation elsewhere at such times.

♛

"…striped bass with a champagne sauce, filet of beef with truffles, beignet potatoes and _baba au rhum_. Does Your Lordship want to sample the cheeses? Chef proposes a Shropshire Blue and a mature Lancashire – to offset the sweetness of the rum cakes, you understand –"

Melbourne dismissed the chief steward. He normally relished the minutiae of planning each _salon_, but the _accoucheur-in-chief _had just emerged from Victoria's private sitting room where he had been conducting an examination.

"Sir Charles," Melbourne greeted the physician, trying for a nonchalant air.

Locock was a handsome, well-built man of middle age, well-regarded in his field. Regardless of age, appearance or professional credentials, it was an awkward situation all around, and one which Locock handled with aplomb. He was fastening his cuffs, and his hands still bore traces of vigorous scrubbing. Melbourne tried not to imagine those long, sensitive fingers probing Victoria's secret places, those tender folds and crevices which were his and his alone.

Sir Charles, having overseen the queen's previous confinements, had suggested the addition of a female practitioner, a proposal Melbourne heartily endorsed. Victoria roundly dismissed such an idea. She'd said she did not approve of women studying for any profession, and in particular for that of medicine, and nothing Locock could say in praise of London's few female physicians could alter her opinion.

"Your Grace," Locock said easily, finished with the job of fastening his cuffs and pulling on his coat. Watching the man adjusting his clothing, Melbourne tried not to wince. It was another reminder of what took place behind closed doors. Not that he _knew_, or wanted to know, the particulars of an obstetrical examination but it was a damned uncomfortable image.

"How is Her Majesty?" Melbourne said, clearing his throat of a sudden constriction.

"Fine, fine. Healthy as a horse, if I may say. No need to look so grim."

Melbourne was, of course, happy to hear it, but he had not suspected otherwise. Victoria had never looked better; her appetite was good without being excessive, she was again free of the bouts of nausea which plagued so many women in her condition.

"And the – the pregnancy?"

"Everything seems to be going well. I can't hear a heartbeat yet, but expect I will at our next examination. The uterus is –"

"Yes, yes, I don't need to hear any more. What I wanted to ask you is – " he stopped talking abruptly, aware that there _was_ no way a gentleman voice the question he wanted to ask. " – is she quite well? Are there any particular prohibitions – a limit to her activities?"

The physician's attention was on the leather bag of instruments he carried.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. She tells me she rides side-saddle, even in the country, and does not hunt. Otherwise – activity as tolerated. If standing for long periods begins to be uncomfortable as her girth increases, well, she _is_ the Queen and accommodations can be made. But she's in good shape, Lord Melbourne. I see no reason she won't carry this child to term."

Melbourne approached the Queen's Senior Dresser with a wink and a nod. The woman was no longer naïve enough to be surprised by the unusual degree of informality and stepped back to let him pass.

Victoria stood in her shift and stockings, a dreamy expression softening her face, and Melbourne paused, suddenly unwilling to disrupt her reverie. She was all pink and white, soft textures and gently rounded curves, without a sharp edge in sight, and he felt a sense of wonder. _His_ seed planted and growing between those hips, under that downy thatch of dark hair.

"May I?" he asked hesitantly.

Victoria's cheeks glowed, and she ducked her head shyly as she raised the hem of her chemise.

Clothed, there was little to see as yet. A careful observer – and the lady courtiers were nothing if not close observers – might note a thickening of her small waist and nothing more. Melbourne knew every inch of her and marveled at the subtle swelling of her lower abdomen, the incremental widening of her hips.

"Do you want to feel?" she whispered, reaching for his hand. She splayed out his fingers, pressing them flat.

"Does he move yet?" Melbourne asked curiously. He felt only firmness, where previously her flesh had been yielding.

"No! William, do you think I would not have told you, if our child had quickened? The instant it happens, I will find you. This is _our_ child, openly, proudly so. Speaking of which, I intend to tell Lord John that after the ball I will retire from public duties and you will act on my behalf. That includes meeting with him. How often you do so is up to you."

Victoria turned to rest her back against him and lifted his other hand to join the first in cradling her womb. Melbourne thrilled at the perfect fit, her curves filling his hollow places.

Her shoulders rested against his chest, her derriere against his groin, and her head lay back against on his shoulder. Off-balance, she trusted him utterly to support her weight.

"Do you think I'm very silly, that I imagine t I can know an unborn child, that I have a real sense of him, who he is?"

"Silly? No, sweetheart." He chose his words carefully. "With Liam and Lily our – our situation was in flux, unsettled, and you were newly crowned. You delivered two healthy children, but perhaps this time you…you are more attuned to the process. It's quite a task, growing an entire person."

Melbourne ended on a teasing note and felt her quiver with a silent chuckle.

"Well, I think I'm silly. Dr. Oh, William, I do miss –" she stopped abruptly, and Melbourne realized what she'd intended to say. "-miss everything. And I do appreciate your patience and understanding."

"I even…sometimes I dream, and wake up all out of sorts from wanting you," Victoria continued plaintively. Melbourne felt her shiver again, and thought that this time it was not laugher she suppressed.

He was startled by Victoria's sudden pirouette. She spun around to face him, clasping his shoulders, clinging to him, and he lowered his head to meet her lips.

They were startled into separating by a quiet knock on the door.

"Beg pardon, Your Majesty, Your Gra- Your Royal Highness." Victoria's dresser bobbed a brief housemaid's curtsy. "Lord Russell has arrived."

♛

"Please communicate to the Foreign Secretary that we expect to review _all_ his correspondence with foreign entities _before_ he sends them. We leave it to you to ensure that it happens. If you require our support in that regard, be assured you have it."

Victoria had kept her premier standing, to encourage brevity. Russell, much like Peel in the early days, appeared relieved when she indicated the audience was nearing an end. She had listened attentively – and for the most part, noncommittally to each of the key matters in which his office was currently involved. _The matters which he _chooses_ to bring to her attention, _Lord M sagely observed in her mind. _Which are generally those which will least interest you, thus keeping you from meddling in those affairs which would _most_ interest you. _

She rang the bell and waited for her equerry arrived to escort the Prime Minister out. Victoria was in the modestly sized drawing room adjacent her private apartments, used to receive the incumbent of that office and a select few others. It was neither as intimate as the drawing room where she and her immediate household entertained family and friends, nor as grand as the Large Audience Chamber. A habit adopted from the courtiers who served her, Victoria had fallen into the habit of referring to the space as _la petite salle_.

It would do, for her next visitor, she decided.

Normally self-assured and studiously informal, Mr. Dickens blinked his eyes in surprise, looking around. He recovered himself and bowed. Somewhat awkwardly, Victoria observed, like a man unused to such gestures. He was increasingly becoming a cultural celebrity in his own right, and even before _Dickens_ became a household name, as a young parliamentary reporter, his writings had carved out a reputation for sardonic irreverence.

"Lord Melbourne was not able to join us?" he asked, even before Victoria had invited him to speak.

"Your note to our secretary indicated only that you wished to make a request for our consideration. Shall we adjourn until His Royal Highness is able to join us?"

"No, ma'am, that won't be necessary."

Victoria watched, her impassive expression hiding amused satisfaction. Mr. Dickens was admired by many, and Lord M considered his advice worth heeding in matters of public opinion, but if he were to become a frequent visitor to Court, he would learn to moderate his manner accordingly.

She allowed silence to fill the space for several minutes, then relented. Inclining her head slightly, Victoria smiled encouragingly.

"One is informed that you like to walk, Mr. Dickens." Miles and miles, through all sorts of weather and every part of the city, through the maze of little-known streets and slum courts, Dickens would walk, Melbourne had said. One of the habits, along with uncanny powers of observation, which made him an invaluable resource. Victoria wasn't quite certain yet whether she shared that opinion – his novels were entertaining on the surface, but contained disquieting notes which jarred the complacency of the ruling class – but he had done them a few good turns, and she would hear him out.

"I confess it is true, ma'am," Dickens said, and Victoria was suddenly struck by his very real charisma.

"Then shall we walk while we talk? I'm informed that this is liable to be our last fine weather, before winter is upon us."

The gardens still held bright spots of color, reds and bronzes and yellow-gold blooms, and the grass and shrubs alike were a brilliant emerald under the bright autumn sun. The distant treetops of Hyde Park showed riotous fall color.

"The day is so mild and lovely, yet winter surely lies ahead," Victoria observed, walking beside her visitor. They were followed by the lady-in-waiting on duty, Anne Caulfield, and the equerry, a younger son of the Marquess of Anglesey.

"I find that Nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own," Dickens answered. Conversation between them became easier as they walked, pausing to watch the cadre of gardeners toiling amongst the plants, readying them for dormancy.

"It will come as no surprise to Your Majesty that there are thousands upon thousands of poor, forlorn creatures not five miles distant from this very location, who have no beauty in their lives," Dickens said in an abrupt change of subject.

"Indeed, Mr. Dickens, there is great suffering on earth, along with great joy. Do you speak of any poor creatures in particular, or is that a generalization?"

"I speak of those for whom charity has no regard, who are not considered worthy of succor. Ma'am, I have been approached by a wealthy philanthropist who would like to join with me in setting up a home for the redemption of fallen women of the working class. We envision a home that would replace the punitive regimes of existing institutions with a reformative environment."

"That sounds like a worthy endeavor," Victoria prompted, willing him to continue. She had caught a glimpse of William in the distance, his silver head only just visible above the shrubbery.

Victoria had become even more keenly aware of both his presence and his absence, in the weeks – no, months – since they last engaged in intimate contact. She had never _not_ been aware of him, but in even the most compatible of marriages one grew accustomed, to a certain extent. Her physical craving for the marital act had not lessened, and it had become an incessant low-grade humming in her flesh. William had been considerate and understanding to a fault – to a _fault,_ she sometimes thought with annoyance. She was consumed by thoughts of the child, an _awareness_ hovering about, that made her burn with embarrassment at the notion that pure spirit would _know_ if she gave herself over to carnal pleasure.

It made no sense – even the strictest church teachings did not proscribe a moratorium on that connection between husband and wife –In her heart of hearts, Victoria fervently wished that William would simply take charge and relieve her of the necessity to _choose_ to indulge her own lust. But he was _William_, unfailingly considerate, constitutionally unable to risk rejection, and even the hurt he hid so well occasionally infuriated her. _I'm your wife! Take me!_ she sometimes wanted to scream, when she woke herself up feeling as though she might go mad with desire.

"…so you see, ma'am, should we – two gentleman – be the sole governors of such an enterprise, there would be talk. Talk which would render dull and void the entire premise upon which such a venture was based."

Victoria ventured a quick look at Dickens, suddenly understanding why this brash near-republican had preferred to put his request to her in the presence of her husband.

"I understand, Mr. Dickens. You would like me to sponsor this asylum for prostitutes? You hope to attach my name to it?" Her voice sounded prim, even stern, to her own ears.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he said, audibly exhaling.

"We will take it under advisement. It is a worthy enterprise, I have no doubt. And no one could impugn your motives, or that of your benefactor, if the Crown were to sponsor it. I trust you see the difficulties as well though."

"We feel that to receive the support of those who must employ our inmates after rehabilitation and training is complete, the lending of your name to this academy would be invaluable…"

"Look, there is Lord Melbourne now. We will join him and you can consult with him. I will soon be withdrawing from public life for a time and he will assume my duties. I would prefer, however, that your facility for the redemption of fallen women _not_ be named after him."

Melbourne and his party had come around the lake path. Victoria's heart sped up in anticipation and her steps quickened. He was with the nursery party, she saw. The children darted to and fro, weaving in and out of the flower beds and exotic plantings, and a lanky figure who could only be the tutor followed at some distance, directing their exploration. Liam bent over a tall stalk of browned hydrangea, seemingly examining some aspect of the desiccated bloom, while Lily gesticulated excitedly, looking up at a stylish little woman.

Madame Hocéde, Victoria assumed, the French widow who had been hired to teach French to the children. In this one subject, Lily excelled far beyond her studious elder brother, and each evening proudly recited that day's litany of words and phrases when Victoria sat with the children and heard their lessons.

The Parisian was far prettier than Victoria had imagined, baselessly assuming that a widow would necessarily be of advanced years and one required to earn a wage, not remotely _en vogue_.

Victoria quelled a quick surge of proprietary vexation, exacerbated by Melbourne's hand resting on the lady's forearm as they both bent to hear the little princess speak.

Madame Hocéde appeared older than Victoria, but in no way less attractive for it. _Forty?_ Victoria guessed. She once would have considered any lady over thirty to be so advanced in years as to negate the possibility of beauty. _Handsome_ was an adjective she'd heard used in connection with ladies of a certain vintage. This lady had a very Parisian beauty, big black-fringed eyes, pert little nose and full mouth. The lining of her bonnet was the same deep violet shade as her eyes and the gown she wore under a light shawl. Entirely insufficient for the temperature, Victoria immediately noted. _Does she hope Lord M will offer his coat?_

She and Dickens were within several metres of the nursery group when they were finally noticed. Melbourne and the children were immediately wreathed in smiles. The tutor stepped behind his young charge and bowed deeply, and the governess swept as graceful a curtsy as Victoria had ever received. The very elegance with which the obeisance was made renewed her ire.

Lily pushed forward, full of the new French names she had learned for the many flowers – some sadly tattered – she had plucked and now presented. Liam, not to be outdone, recited Latin terms botanical terms. Even as Victoria listened, she was aware of Lord M at her side. He was not inappropriately close – their arms were surely several inches apart? – and yet she felt that tingling surge of electromagnetic current between them, making the fine hairs on her skin stand on end.

Chrysanthème. _The world is full of pretty women, even pretty _French_ women. _

Coccineus_. He is not blind to the attractive women. I knew that and he still chose _me.

Marguerite. _But I have been so foolish, so cold._

Purpureus. _The surest way to push a man away is to become a jealous harpy._

De la lavande_. Lord M is attractive to women. He always has been. The most handsome man in the world loves _me_._

Victoria praised the children extravagantly, then spoke gracious words of commendation to the two educators – in terms which clearly dismissed them. When the children were taken back to the palace for their afternoon tea and cakes, Victoria laid her hand on Melbourne's arm and walked between him and Mr. Dickens as they talked over her head. The afternoon's warmth was fading swiftly, and she allowed herself to lean toward Melbourne, telling herself it was only to ward off a chill. _To the devil with the proprieties,_ she wanted to say. _And damn the gardeners and tutors – even pretty French teachers – and Mr. Dickens too. I want to be alone with my husband, I want his arms around me. I want to feel that thatch of hair on his chest against my bare breasts. I want –_

Of course she said nothing of the sort, and even managed to enjoy the experience of strolling between two tall handsome men. _Not_, of course, that Mr. Dickens was in any way the equal of Melbourne. Even engaged in an activity as mundane as walking through a garden, Lord M was the very picture of manly grace and elegance. His voice washed over her, bathing her senses as did his very nearness.

"What do you think, Lord M? Shall I lend my name to a home for fallen women? As Mr. Dickens has said, surely the Almighty Himself can forgive sins born of the natural yearnings of the flesh."


	9. Chapter 9

_"Tell me who you were, William. Would I have loved you then? Would you have loved me?"_

Her dark hair spilled over his breast, the ends tickling a sensitive spot over his ribs with each inhalation. Darkness enveloped them like blood-red velvet, redolent with the perfume of their senses, musky and ancient and new.

Who was I at seven-and-twenty? Melbourne cast his mind back dreamily. _Newly-wed and utterly captivated still, as much at having to hold and own a fellow creature as I was by that winsome creature herself. Marriage was amusing then, endlessly amusing, yet still only one part of the world opening itself to me. As desperately as I'd pursued her, marshaling all my resources to win her family's approval, once I had Caroline she was a constant whilst everything else – our position in society, the entertainments on offer to a young man of my station, my cronies and the patronage of our Prince Regent, thanks to my mother's influence – was in flux, demanding my attention._

_I was no more or less selfish than any other young man. Those tender traits which were successfully submerged in the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of Eton, then Trinity, had not yet awakened from hibernation. Caro's early abject subjugation was no more than her playacting, but I would not learn that lesson for a while. My fey Ariel, fairy queen, ethereal, otherworldly, only tempted me to relieve her of a veneer of idealism and piety which I considered masquerade. Did I shock her, wound her, as she claimed, by making exaggerated tales of debauchery part of our foreplay? Doubtful, for any Devonshire House girl; she would have had to be deaf, dumb and blind to emerge spiritually intact. Hypocrisy in all forms was anathema to my generation, in that place and time, and I sought only to strip hers away. Who knew then, how it would end?_

Back to Victoria's question, then, Melbourne decided. _Who was I? Would I have loved her? Would _she_ have loved me as I was then?_

"No," he answered regretfully, coiling a long strand of brown hair around his finger. "I was not worthy of you."

"I was not fully formed then, still evolving, trying on and discarding personas like suits of clothing. Whilst you, my love – you burn true, a lantern in the darkness. You've never been other than you are, true to yourself, true to duty and destiny, incapable of artifice."

Limbs entangled, lassitude claimed them in the aftermath of union. Melbourne felt a faint tingling reminder of recently sated lust, just a twinge but enough to bring back that glorious sense of _homecoming_. Victoria had been so ready, avid, that her quivering anticipation was palpable, and when she'd taken him into herself she'd fit him as tightly as the proverbial glove – if any glove could be satin and molten and impossibly taut.

"I want to believe that I would have known you and loved you regardless of circumstance," she said, lips moving against his abdomen so her words were muffled. "You were always _you_, wise and kind and strong and…"

Melbourne chuckled, and the motion rocked her so she giggled and pushed herself up.

"I was many things as a young man, but _kind_ and _wise_ are none of them. Nor was I particularly _strong_. What did the bard have Othello say? 'Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak of one that lov'd not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplex'd in the extreme. . . .' I did love Caroline in my way, and in those first years we were children together, pretending to be grown. Or adolescents, rather, late to mature – she, more innocent than I, in some ways. Or perhaps more vulnerable, because even then there were signs of volatility and a tendency toward emotional excess. Whilst I – I thought it all a marvelous game, and she, a playmate whom I could guide and shape. It was a different time and place – one can blame the horrors of Madame Guillotine across the channel, but we who came to manhood in the '90s delighted in casting off all the restraints of convention and morality, seeking only pleasure and sensation."

Melbourne heard the words flowing, desultory, unplanned, an uncensored, unedited reminiscence. He wanted Victoria to know, a little; to understand, a bit, who and how he had been then.

"I think you are too hard on yourself. You could never, ever be unkind, or immoral. Perhaps what you describe is _amoral_, rather. And Caro never stopped loving you, never waned in her respect and admiration for you. But this is about _me_."

Melbourne laughed once more, and to stop himself, wound the whole length of her hair around his fist and gently tugged.

"Yes, indeed, it is about you. I would have – I would have recognized, even then, even in the midst of callow, self-centered young manhood, the goodness and decency in you, and the lack of artifice. Whether I would have been capable of allowing that to turn into the sort of love that we have now…I hope I could. Or perhaps, like your cavalier, I would have loved the _idea_ of you, and kept you an idol on a pedestal."

Victoria squirmed backward until her face was level with his, then laid a hand on his cheek and probed his eyes as though searching for something. Melbourne's lids were drooping but he did not look away.

"Things happened as they did for a reason then. I do not find young gentlemen very interesting or attractive, not even in the very casual happenstance way in which you admire Madame Hocéde. We are perfectly suited as we are. Only, sometimes I am curious about the person you were. _Willie_ Lamb."

It was a diminutive Victoria had once read in an old letter of Caro's. She used it rarely, and only in the carefully deferential way in which she referenced her predecessor.

"Do you want to sleep?" she asked, sounding somewhat surprised by the idea. Another hallmark way in which men and women differed, Melbourne knew. The degree of satisfaction experienced in an intimate encounter was reflected in desire for sleep in the male, conversation in the female.

"Have you given any thought to names? For our child?" Without waiting for a response, Victoria continued. "Uncle Leopold has been hinting at a namesake. There is _George_, for your brother and my uncle. And _Frederick,_ for your other brother, and _Peniston_, of course –"

"God, no!" Melbourne expostulated. "We will not do that to a child."

"Very well. Only, one considers it such a very _distinctive_ name that there could be no mistaking the child's paternity."

"I doubt very much anyone would have cause to doubt this child's paternity in any case."

"I would like to adopt your surname. We would take soundings, but I've steadfastly refused to adopt _Saxe-Coburg-Gotha_, so we are still the House of Hanover. How does the House of Lamb sound?"

"Like an abattoir, ma'am," Melbourne said drily. "I notice you offer only boys' names. Are you ruling out the notion of a female child? Or would _she_ be Leopold George Frederick too?"

"I did _not_ say we would name a child after Uncle Leopold, only that the broad hints in his most recent letter put me in mind of the need to settle on a name. Which girls' names do you like then?"

"Victoria," he said firmly. "After that, as you will. Adelaide, perhaps, after your aunt. She was kind to you, when your mother and the King were at odds. Or Louise. The Baroness would be honored, and deserves nothing less."

Her hands moved ceaselessly, butterfly-light meanderings interspersed with a firmer touch when her palm slid from point to point. Aimless, without deliberation or design, yet effective. _Sixty-seven_, Melbourne chortled mentally, _and I'm nearly ready again_. _There is something to be said for periodic abstinence._

"What about Caroline? Or Emily Caroline?" Victoria's voice was so high-pitched and tremulous that he wanted to shake her.

"Stop," he said instead. Instantly, her roving hands stilled.

"Not _that_," Melbourne clarified. "That is…rather pleasant. Pray continue. Stop insisting that you have to declare this child's paternity to the world, and above all stop thinking you must declare your…toleration? Devotion to all things Lamb? To me. Disabuse yourself of the notion I would doom any child of mine to carry the name of your uncle's unwanted spouse – or that of my sister, who has always rued the day Mother chose to give her a housemaid's name. If you want to be original, then what about _Alice?_ I've always rather liked the sound of it."

He repositioned Victoria, delighting in her lightness, feather-weight in his hands, and brought his mouth close to the swelling in her midsection.

"What say you, child of mine? Are you an Edward, a George or an Alice? Even, a Leopold if we are to consider dynastic implications?"

Melbourne could not be certain what he felt – or if he in fact felt anything but the rumblings of digestion - but Victoria had yelped. When he glanced up her eyes were wide in the darkness.

"Do that again!" she implored. "Talk to him. He – he moved, William. The baby moved, when he heard your voice!"


	10. Chapter 10

October's azure skies, bright sun and crisp woodsmoke- and apple-scented air had been washed away by cold November rain. Only full darkness brought some relief from relentless gunmetal skies that drained all warmth and vigor. Victoria claimed to share Melbourne's aversion to shadows and insisted upon well-trimmed wicks in the oil lamps, ample beeswax candles and cheerful fires burning in every hearth. That time of year might have opened the door to melancholy, if the hours were not filled to bursting with demands on his time and attention. The palace itself was a fortress, bulwark against chance solitude and the aloneness he had always found intolerable.

At half-past five o'clock on a Wednesday in mid-November, the streets were bustling when Melbourne left Whitehall. The brougham passed battalions of clerks and middle managers eager to put the workday behind them, laborers, housemaids and shop girls stepping out of the way of their betters. Vendors hawked pea soup, hot eels, hot potatoes and fried fish, all exotic treats to a small child accustomed to nursery fare.

Melbourne shifted in his seat, glad of his rabbit-lined gloves and heavy coat; glad too of the child beside him, warm and safe in the shelter of his encircling arm. With his free hand he patted the thick sheaf of folded paper in his pocket, frowning into the darkness.

♛

Victoria had informed her Privy Council that the Diplomatic Reception and Ball would be her last public engagement for some months. Lord John Russell informed his cabinet and speakers in each House offered prayers and felicitations to the Royal family. To make Victoria laugh, Melbourne had mocked the convoluted language by which grown men managed to avoid direct mention of the queen's precise disability. Once she was safely delivered, bells would be rung and cannons fired, but prior to that, prudery dictated pretend ignorance of the mechanism involved.

Of course such restrictions were right and proper, for ordinary women, she'd fumed.

"But I am no ordinary woman, Lord M. I have a duty to my country and it's nonsensical to think I must relinquish it for the duration, only to spare gentlemen the sight of my increasing waist."

Primogeniture was based entirely on successful procreation, and her firstborn, like any potential heir to the Throne, came into the world with senior representatives of government bearing witness. How foolish, then, to require her to have to hide herself away as soon as her condition became apparent!

Melbourne listened sympathetically when Victoria vented her frustration. He understood that, having grown into the embodiment of _Gloriana_, she would miss the work she loved; understood too, that her belief in a natural order which kept women – _other_ women – subservient to their husbands, with no place in public life or discourse, was deeply ingrained and not liable to change.

Victoria had been delivered by a college-educated female physician, the same who had delivered her cousin Albert. Madame Siebold had studied medicine at University of Medicine in Göttinge before earning her doctorate in Giessen. When Melbourne had broached the subject of bringing Madame Siebold to London, to oversee the Queen's third pregnancy, Victoria had scoffed at the notion of a female physician.

"That was _Germany_, William, and an earlier, more ignorant time. I would not feel comfortable entrusting our child to a _woman_ who plays at having a profession. How unnatural!"

She had even shivered dramatically, to make her point, and Melbourne had let the matter drop. He had no strong opinions one way or the other, and the suggestion had been prompted by squeamishness at the notion of male physicians poking, probing and penetrating his wife's intimate parts.

Once the announcement had been made, petitions flooded her office. MPs hoped to deliver a Royal appearance to their constituency, achievements must be honored, medals awarded, so that the Court Circular as printed in The Times was many times its usual length.

Whist Victoria's days filled with dedications, investitures and private audiences, Melbourne met with sponsors and opponents of key bills, bartering and brokering deals. Like the sovereign, her consort, must take no stand for or against any party or position. In that regard, his new role was so very different from the old when he pretended lazy detachment, in order to avoid taking action until he could be absolutely certain of both the necessity of acting at all, and the likely outcome.

_The whole duty of government is to prevent crime and to preserve contracts_ had long been his philosophy. If the sovereign's duty was '_to be consulted, to encourage and to warn'_, then he considered that his was to pour oil on troubled waters and keep his finger on the pulse of the nation, to _inform_ and _support_ without interference.

♛

As the carriage traveled the final length of Constitution Hill, Melbourne could not resist leaning forward for his first glimpse of the palace. It was a bastion of light in the darkness, a welcoming sight..._home._ _My Hell isn't fire and brimstone, _he mused_, but the absence of light and warmth. _That cold gray mist-shrouded world of his dreams, a world that somehow, somewhere was his fate.

_But not here, and not now_.

He had looked into those once-captivating black eyes and saw only faint wistfulness lurking behind determination. She was a handsome woman still, with enough of that fiery spirit to enthrall a whole new generation of lusty admirers. It was that sharp edge, hardness juxtaposed with voluptuous appeal, that men found irresistible. _Some_ men, he corrected. She was a Sheridan and drama were in her blood. Caroline never entered a room; she made an _entrance,_ with impeccable timing and undeniable flair.

He studied her as long as he dared, both hoping and fearing what he would find. No coquetry in that level gaze, and no evasion either. They had enjoyed each other's company once, for so long it became a habit and such habits were notoriously hard to break. She had been a delightful creature, her acerbic humor and pitch-perfect mimicry of the foibles of others the perfect foil for his own rather cynical observations. It had been almost a performance piece, the sparkling repartee they exchanged in her _salon_, rapier-thrusts in an ongoing verbal duel, as others looked on appreciatively.

"Don't blame Leigh. I would have come with or without his assistance. Your whereabouts are hardly a secret."

"You read the Court Circular to track my comings and goings? Caroline, I am flattered. Do you follow Sydney Herbert's career with equal devotion?"

"His name was all I wanted. I do not sleep alone, unless I chose to. In Italy the climate is far gentler than on these cold, judgmental isles."

"It's a matter of complete indifference to me, Caroline."

Melbourne was uncomfortably aware that they would soon draw unwanted attention. They stood in a group under the half-finished Maclise mural bearing her image in the guise of Lady Justice. Liam waited patiently beside the detective assigned to guard him, but he missed nothing and listened all too well.

As though intuiting the direction of his thoughts, Caroline turned away. She was a statuesque woman, her height nearly equal to his own, and even in a veil her countenance was striking. Melbourne saw his son's expression change, as the tall woman in widow's weeds bore down on him.

Conceding the inevitable – to protest would only attract the sort of attention he hoped to avoid – Melbourne dispatched one of the two protection officers to commandeer an empty conference room. Caroline reached for Liam's hand and he gave it willingly. _He's barely six and trusts in the kindness of those around him_, Melbourne thought, damning that Sheridan audacity. He could hear bits and pieces of their conversation, thanks only to the acoustics in the Peers' Lobby.

She was telling Liam about her own sons, once small and now mostly grown. "I had a boy named William too. Willie, we called him. He fell off his pony and died, when I was not there to care for him."

Melbourne heard the ragged edge of genuine grief in her voice, and a small part of him felt unwelcome sympathy. Still, it was far too grim a tale to tell a small child.

"Caroline…" he warned.

"You've never asked," she said, stopping in her tracks. Those dark eyes swam in unshed tears, and Melbourne looked away so that he would not be affected.

"You want something that is not mine to give," he said. "You must find consolation with the boy's father."

"I have tried, William. Oh, how I have tried." Melbourne saw the shadow of sadness in her eyes. "Can't we let bygones be bygones? If it were you cast into the outer darkness, I would not abandon you to your fate. I would stand your friend, until the final hour."

Caroline was suddenly devoid of artifice, and he realized she was showing him her own vulnerability. Lovers and infamy could not fill a void left by the loss of home and family, the death of a child.

"I – I was never more wrong about anything, than when I predicted _it_ wouldn't last. _She_ has no reason to resent me, only because before her it was me with whom you laughed and talked late into the night. It's not fair that I bear the brunt of _our_ mistake, and have to spend my time in exile."

Melbourne no longer carried money, and so he looked to the younger detective. The fellow cheerfully coaxed Liam to accompany him in search of a hot-chocolate vendor.

"We tried friendship once, Caroline. At least _I_ did."

"I was fueled by spite then, and a hatred of being discarded. Supplanted by a chit of a girl, an empty vessel for you to fill with your wisdom, clay to be molded into your image of the perfect protégée. And you've done it! Bravo, bravissimo! I bow before you and salute your success." Caroline swept off her hat, freeing nightshade hair to tumble down around her face. She dipped into an exaggerated curtsy.

"Stop it," Melbourne said sharply, but he already knew he would snort with laughter.

"You think I mock, but I am quite serious. Whoever thought the stiff Dresden doll, the Hanover princess, so gauche and whey-faced would shed her chrysalis and become –" Caroline spread her arms wide. Melbourne knew she had rehearsed her speech, had polished every line, choreographed every gesture. He leaned against the door and crossed his arms.

"Cavendish is quite besotted by your little Queen, but I don't have to tell you that. He's a courtier born and bred, so I might discount what he says, but then I hear from Seymour, who raves about Her Majesty's _agréable personnalité_. No less a connoisseur than François Guizot has told people that she has an innate dignity which cannot be feigned. _La reine est très charmante_.

You made her what she is, William, and for that I salute you."

Her breasts were heaving from the exertion of her performance. Melbourne saw the telltale iridescence of pearl powder, and suspected she had rouged her nipples too. It was all part of her theatrics, and nothing else. There was no more current between them, none of that sizzling push-and-pull of revulsion and lust he had felt before.

"Is that the end? Or is there an encore?" Melbourne paused graciously before continuing.

"Don't _be_ that way. I can't change who I am, only to make myself more deserving of your trust. I am not interested in rekindling what we had – frankly, you are past the age which interests me, and happily married men are so _tedious_. But I do miss our conversations, and having a friend who has known me longer than a minute."

_So do I_, Melbourne thought, and was horrified by the realization. It rankled as much as it relieved, to hear her so cavalierly dismiss him. Their previous amorous connection had been almost incidental to a lively and devoted friendship, but it was damned unpleasant to be told that one was no longer an object of desire.

"I look at you now and see only my dearest friend of longstanding," Caroline said, delivering the coup de grâce with a final flourish. "But if things had happened differently, and it was you alone and abandoned by all those you once called friends, I would stand by you. I do not so easily turn my back on those who loved me."

Melbourne began to laugh and Caroline joined in, so the two of them were caught up in merriment when Liam returned.

"You are allowed to see Emily Eden, every now and again. If Her Majesty permits that friendship to continue, why not me?"

♛

He told her as soon as he was able.

That brief stop at Westminster had not been his sole errand. HRH Prince William Albert Augustus was made much of at a gentlemen's luncheon in Mayfair. Bessborough, in town from Dublin through the first of the year, displayed avuncular kindness and patiently encouraged Liam to answer the sort of questions one put to a child. If he thought of his own troubled nephew when looking at this bright beautiful boy, he made no reference to Augustus and congratulated Melbourne on the Queen's happy news.

Sir John Easthope owned the Morning Chronicle, and was a good Party man. Melbourne had gotten him a Barony in '41 for his advocacy of the government policy in Syrian affairs and they remained on cordial terms thereafter. Dickens had once worked for Easthope as a Parliamentary reporter, but had since set himself up as a rival in the newspaper wars. Melbourne paid him a visit, to balance out any presumed partiality for the Daily News. During the strike he led, Dickens had christened him Blast-hope and the nickname stuck.

Liam, at his father's side, acknowledged neck-bows with a slight nod of his head and the winning smile which melted the most curmudgeonly of hearts. He listened and did not fidget, responded to the questions put to him without regard for their foolishness – Melbourne might have groaned and rolled his eyes, if he was not determined to set a good example – and missed little in his surroundings. Melbourne knew that when Victoria saw them at bedtime, the children would share the high points of their day.

He would tell her as soon as he was able.

The private wing was a bright buzzing hive of activity. He intended to bring Liam to the nursery wing, then go in search of Victoria. The little princess thought otherwise, clinging to him so piteously that he spent a half-hour listening to her small triumphs and litany of complaints while Liam was whisked off to bathe.

A footman walking the dogs became tangled in their leashes, and Melbourne stopped to assist, scooping up one yapping hound, restraining two others and separating three snapping, growling combatants.

Two of the very youngest maids of honor begged him to critique the _polka_ they were practicing in an empty audience chamber, determined to master the steps before the Diplomatic Ball.

Melbourne's progress was impeded more times than he could count, on his way to find Victoria. A hall page informed him that Her Majesty had only just passed by, but before he could follow her he was summoned on some insignificant matter. With each delay, his tension ratcheted up – _damned fool, your anxiety will brand you as guilty!_ He told himself.

In the end he went to their private suite, resolved to hide away from any other interruptions until he could have a private conversation. The cozy familiar space enveloped him, soothing away concern. Melbourne traded coat and shoes for dressing gown and slippers and sank heavily into his big leather armchair. The relief of putting his feet up, of resting his head against the chairback and closing his eyes, lulled him to sleep.

He opened his eyes at the sudden weight on his outstretched legs, and smiled muzzily, trying to focus. Victoria, in chemise and petticoat, was in his lap and his arms went around her of their own volition.

"Did you have a very long day?" she cooed tenderly, pushing the hair off his brow.

"We met Caroline," he blurted, wanting it out in the open. Victoria tilted her head, miming confusion, then her mouth formed an O of comprehension.

"I thought you meant – never mind, that was silly. Of course you mean Mrs. Norton." Her voice might have sounded a trifle strained – he could not be certain – but there was otherwise no outward sign of distress.

"Yes." Her dark hair, brushed into a smooth chignon at her morning's toilette, was now sweetly mussed, with fine loose hairs framing her face. Melbourne cupped her cheek in his palm, then gently guided her head toward his shoulder. Like that he held her, content to bask in the comfort of the moment.

"She's been in Italy, and intends to return, I suppose. She – it was oddly flat. None of the old tension or histrionics. I am too old for her taste in paramours, she said, and wants only to be on terms of friendship."

Victoria lifted her head, staring, and the incredulity he saw in her face was flattering.

"_Too old?_ Ridiculous. Clearly, she was lying. I suppose to alleviate any concern on my part, since of course she knew you would repeat her words."

"Is it so hard to believe, that she might no longer be attracted to me? Her infatuation ran its course?"

"'Hard to believe'? It's impossible," Victoria said flatly. "You are – are the handsomest, most desirable of men. I would sooner believe that she – that she developed a taste for women. There were rumors repeated to me, that she and Mary Shelley –"

"Those rumors are not the sort you need concern yourself with, ma'am. They are not for a lady's ears." Melbourne huffed a small laugh as he delivered the edict, pretending to sternness.

Victoria relaxed against his breast once more, and lifted his arm to pull it more securely around her.

"You looked so very melancholy, as I watched you sleep. Did seeing her disturb your peace?"

"Not nearly as much as my concern for _you_. I have no wish to upset you, or our little princeling."

"Did Liam see her? Did she speak to him?"

"She told him about her son – the boy who died in '42, while in his father's care. He fell off his pony and died, she said."

"Is she cruel, or only stupid?"

"Neither. A grieving mother, for that I give her credit. She still insinuates the child was mine, even in the face of her own husband's determination to assert his paternal rights."

For a few minutes they listened to the crackling flames in the hearth. Their hands stroked aimlessly, Melbourne caressing the length of her back, Victoria toying with the hairs on his forearm.

"I am sorry for her loss," Victoria said finally. "As I'd be sorry for any mother who buried a child."

"As am I," Melbourne answered dispassionately. "She said something else – a throwaway remark, no more, but it – it resonated. Nothing," he hastened to add. "which ought concern you, or _us_, but it did make me think."

She was warm and soft and yielding in his arms, her weight precisely right to anchor him in the present. Melbourne groaned subaudibly at the thought of rising, but knew they must soon change for dinner.

"Not yet," Victoria murmured, reading his thoughts. "Hold me just a little longer."


	11. Chapter 11

_Ssshh, hold your breath! You're breathing too loudly!_

_She'll sound the alarm if she gets no response._

_William, stop! That tickles!_

Outside the stout paneled door, a second sharp knock, followed by that dread 8:00AM summons.

"Your Majesty, I have your tray."

The brass knob jiggled, just enough to warn them someone was coming in.

Melbourne briefly considered the consequences of remaining as they were. Victoria's nose was pressed into his side, and her bent knee pinned him to the mattress. Her silent giggles sent a rippling sensation down his spine, and staying in bed took on another, altogether pleasant dimension.

With the greatest regret he lowered the sheet tented over their heads, and grinned sheepishly at an unsmiling face standing no more than five feet away. He raked his fingers through what must be horribly disheveled hair and pushed himself up.

"Thank you," Victoria's cool clear tone was matter-of-fact, as though they had not only just been whispering like children under the bedcovers. She had been closely attended her entire life, and scarcely noticed the ubiquitous presence of domestic staff.

A footman trundled his wheeled cart across the carpet of the Queen's private sitting room. He would stop there, for decency's sake, and the maid would bring it the rest of the way. She first folded back shutters, closed in the night against a strong, nearly gale-force wind. They rarely slept with the night sky fully obscured. Victoria shared Melbourne's dislike of total darkness, and he had taught her to find patterns in the stars.

"You may send Skerrett in thirty minutes' time," she said in dismissal. Her dresser would arrive at precisely half past eight, whether or not she had been summoned, and Melbourne knew that within a fraction of that time the sound of water being drawn and wardrobes opening would reach them from the dressing rooms.

Victoria took chocolate in the morning, Melbourne his Cuban coffee prepared in the French fashion. She would spread marmalade on dry toast, and if he no longer called for beefsteak and three or four eggs, Melbourne would at least expect bacon with his fried bread. She was fundamentally unable to linger in bed, once fully awake. That door opening signaled the commencement of her duty and her day, whilst Melbourne preferred to laze against the abundant feather pillows reading the morning's papers. He _could_ find ways to distract her, a course of action he considered briefly, but even _that _entailed more dedicated effort than he generally cared to put forth before midday.

Melbourne watched Victoria lazily, his eyes half-closed. Like most of his class and generation, he had never _slept_ with any woman on a regular basis, certainly not his wife. At the beginning of their secret union, he had taken exaggerated care to avoid detection by the seven hundred servants peopling Buckingham Palace, and twice that number in the halls of Windsor. For all he had taught her of the art of love – and she was an avid pupil, naturally made for amorous pleasure – she had introduced him, in his sixtieth year, to the inestimable comfort of sharing a bed. Her cold feet would find his warm ones and her smooth young limbs ease the ever-present ache in his joints. Her even breathing and infinitely reassuring presence became essential to his peaceful repose, and just that suddenly Melbourne could no longer bear sleeping alone.

"What's this?" Victoria's voice was sharp. She held that morning's Daily News. Just beneath the fold, lower right, Melbourne spotted the three-column bold header: **Mrs. Norton's Letter to the Queen.**

Several thoughts went through his mind in quick succession. The first: _Fuck_! The second: _That damned letter is still in my coat pocket. Why didn't I read it when I had the chance_? And the third: _What the bloody hell is wrong with Charles, to print such rubbish without talking to us first?_ _So much for trusting _him; _I knew I could never trust _her.

Victoria looked impossibly young and untouched, all roses-and-cream, hair tumbling around her face and one temptingly smooth shoulder bare where the strap of her nightdress had fallen. Her classic profile might have been etched on a Grecian vase, save for the tip of that sweetly upturned nose, the foreshortening of a tender upper lip.

Melbourne had wanted to protect her since the moment they first met, nearly as much as he wanted to fall at her feet in reverence. _Innocent_ was not quite apt, he thought; _pure_ came closer, but failed to hit the mark. Melbourne searched for the elusive _mot juste_ which escaped him.

_Gloriana_ burned as bright and true as a flame. He had watched, weeping, as she was anointed with sacred oils and had seen the miraculous consecration take place. She _believed_, with her whole heart and mind, that she had assumed the mantle of divinity. It elevated her far beyond the petty travails of mere mortals and imbued her with the soul of a nation.

_Pffft_! That goddess made a vulgar noise and threw aside the paper.

"What's she up to now?"

"I don't know, for sure. She gave me a draft of the _letter_. It's not meant to be personal correspondence, but I thought publication would be delayed." Melbourne swung bare feet to the floor and fumbled for his slippers. "I'll go find it now. I must have left it in my coat."

"No." Victoria laid a restraining hand on his forearm. "I don't want any part of that woman in our bed. We'll look at it later, in the office. Or have you already read it?"

"I have not, ma'am. It is addressed to you."

"Addressed to me, and circulated to the masses. If I could bear the sight of her, your Mrs. Norton might make a cunning adviser. She certainly missed her calling as a political wife."

"Not intentionally," Melbourne responded dryly. "That was, after all, her intent in pushing George to the limit of his tolerance."

"_Would_ you have married her? If the scandal hadn't exploded as it did."

"Never," Melbourne said firmly. "We were friends – er, with certain _benefits_ attached – but I was a foolish romantic even then. I craved love, and devotion, and intimacy. Had I wanted only a cunning co-conspirator, I might have married Tom Young. And if I wanted a wife who could make intelligent conversation, and with a kinder disposition, I could have wed Emily Eden. She was always far more agreeable than Caroline, even when they bared their claws and hissed at one another."

"Instead you got me," Victoria answered pertly, interrupting his segue. Melbourne smiled at her over his shoulder and she pressed her lips against his nightshirt-covered back.

"You, ma'am, are the prize. And you rather surprise me. You're taking this all rather well, I must say. I feared – well, never mind what I feared."

"I hope you don't think I've accepted that creature? No? Well, good. I understand a little of what you must feel, a sort of nostalgia for someone who has known you a very long time and shared your thoughts. I can even respect your – your sense of honor, I suppose, that if your situations were reversed and you were isolated and unhappy, she would remain devoted to you, and so you owe her the same. But if she were happily married in that instance, if she had gone on to start a new family, not to replace her lost sons but to begin anew, would she _then_ still have made time for you?"

♛

Melbourne, being as much sought after for his _bon mots_ and armchair philosophizing as he was for his vast network of acquaintances, received more dinner invitations than there were hours in a day. He was free to accept or decline as he would, guided only by instinct and inclination, but chose to talk them over with Victoria all the same. He was as jealous of their time as she was – more so, since Victoria had been raised with the example of her uncles and the European courts, where a reigning sovereign rarely sought the private companionship of spouse and children.

With the assistance of Arthur Lascelles, they flipped through the stack of invitations addressed to _His Grace the Duke of Melbourne_ and even a few - sycophants no doubt, since no proclamation had as yet been made – to _His Royal Highness_ the Duke of Melbourne, and those others which bore the Queen's name and style first, indicating an official engagement.

They would attend the Duchess of Richmond's ball. Charles Gordon-Lennox, the 5th Duke, was a prominent Conservative, and although the Crown was expected to be politically blind, Victoria made judicious attempts to balance her patronage. Lascelles added a note and entered the engagement into the Queen's diary and Melbourne's both.

They would include John Ponsonby and his wife in a dinner at Windsor to formally welcome George Bancroft, the newly-appointed American minister plenipotentiary sent to London to work with the British government on the Oregon boundary dispute. Victoria hesitated, tapping her lower lip with the end of her pen.

"Who else should we include?"

"Macaulay, of course. He's given Bancroft a bed."

"I thought Macaulay is a Whig. He was your Secretary at War, and now Lord John's Paymaster General."

"What can I say? Politics make strange bedfellows, and I don't think the Americans are as attached to the minutiae of their ideology as we are. Not so partisan, at any rate. All part of the grand experiment in representative government."

Melbourne named a few others who might make congenial dinner companions. Bancroft had presented his papers and been formally received the week prior, and he had appeared to be a presentable-enough fellow, lacking the loud voice and inherent bluster most Englishmen associated with their new world cousins.

Melbourne leaned over her shoulder, watching as she wrote. Lascelles took careful notes, but Victoria's schoolgirl habits compelled her to jot reminders in her own hand.

"Very well, Arthur. I think that's all until the afternoon dispatches arrive. Please prepare anything which needs my signature and – oh, do send up any late newspapers before you have your luncheon. Lord Melbourne and I are taking a tray here. We will work through. That's all."

Victoria unfolded the pages Melbourne had brought to her and began reading aloud.

_…I address your Majesty on the subject. _

_I do not do so in the way of appeal. The vague romance of "carrying my wrongs to the foot of the throne," forms no part of my intention: for I know the throne is powerless to redress them. I know those pleasant tales of an earlier and simpler time, when oppressed subjects travelled to the presence of some glorious prince or princess, who instantly set their affairs to rights without reference to law, are quaint old histories, or fairy fables, fit only for the amusement of children._

_I connect your Majesty's name with these pages from a different motive; for two reasons: of which one, indeed, is a sequence to the other. First, because I desire to point out the grotesque anomaly which ordains that married women shall be "non-existent" in a country governed by a female Sovereign; and secondly, because, whatever measure for the reform of these statutes may be proposed, it cannot become "the law of the land" without your Majesty's assent and sign manual. In England there is no Salique law. If there were,–if the principles which guide all legislation for the inferior sex in this country, were carried out in their integrity as far as the throne,–your Majesty would be by birth a subject, and Hanover and England would be still under one King._

Victoria wore a subdued blue-and-green tartan-print gown, enlivened by white cotton lace at the collar and cuffs. Melbourne's lips twitched, wanting to smile, knowing it would be inappropriate, even distracting. He could not help but think that despite nine years a queen, six a mother, with her third child on the way, she was still a girl, would _always_ be a girl, to him.

His feelings as a husband took nothing from the reverence due a monarch or the respect due one's wife. He needed no Caroline Norton preaching equality, to instill a fundamental awareness of the equality of women. His mother had done a fine job of teaching by example, as had her coterie of accomplished friends. Lady Bessborough, Lady Holland, Georgiana Devonshire, even Caro herself, were not liable to tolerate anyone viewing them as inferior creatures.

And yet – should wives be the equal of their husbands at law? Should a mother have equal claim to her children? Or even, as some more radical than Caroline herself, suggested, to their husband's wealth and property as well? Should a married woman retain her own means of support? What would happen then, to the very fabric of society? If one assumed the strength of a mother's love, then should that bond not be used to reinforce the family unit? What would happen if any dissatisfied wife felt free to decamp, yet keep her children and the means to support them?

"I don't think you should give a woman too much right...there should not be two conflicting powers...a man ought to have the right in a family," Melbourne said, framing his thoughts as he spoke them.

"And if a husband becomes unbearable, a brute, and endangers the very life of his wife? Must she leave those she holds most dear, her children, behind, only to preserve her own life? That is, I think, the story Mrs. Norton tells."

"There will always be outliers, situations which exceed the scope of any law to predict. As far as Caroline goes, I hope she has more sense than to use her own marriage as an example. She pushed Norton to the brink, egging him on, wanting him to cast her out and divorce her. He would have done so too, happily, if I had only acceded to his extortion. I would have been out £10,000 and stuck with a wife I did not want. In that instance at least, Norton was no brute until she confronted him, lambasted him with his inadequacies and held me up as comparison in a way no man can tolerate."

"Well." Victoria was not amused; she'd tightened her lips into a thin line of something like disapproval. "She clearly did not take advantage of your wisdom, although I am sure you were as generous with that as you were with…everything else. Neither with her own husband, nor with me. She would be far more likely to win my patronage for her bill, if she wrote to me privately, in a humbler tone. Instead – this." Victoria tossed the pages aside angrily. "She _lectures_ me? Points out my impotence to champion her cause?"

Curious, Melbourne picked up the discarded letter.

_In the year 1845, on the occasion of the opening of the new Hall of Lincoln's Inn, your Majesty honoured that Hall with your presence, when Viscount Melbourne honored upon the anniversary of having become a barrister at law… No reigning sovereign had visited the Inns of Court since Charles II., in 1671. In the magnificent library of Lincoln's Inn, seated on a chair of state with Lord Melbourne at your side, your Majesty held a levee; and received an address from the benchers, barristers, and students-at-law, which was the treasurer on his knee: thanking your Majesty for the proof given by your presence of your "gracious regard for the profession of the law,"–offering congratulations "on the great amendments of the law, effected since your Majesty's accession;" and affirming that "the pure glory of those labours must be dear to your Majesty's heart."_

_Pride and spite_, Melbourne thought. _Caroline Norton would, despite her sharp mind and clever pen, always defeat her own cause through pride and spite._ Yes, he occasionally waxed nostalgic, remembering those lively evenings with her seated at his feet while together, in her salon, they commanded the attention of admiring acolytes. But her friendship had been so very much _work_. Even in their intimate moments – far more seldom than commonly supposed – Caroline demanded ever-increasing stimulation of the senses which took the place of natural desire. It had been intoxicating, in a dark, sharp-edged way, but his disposition was too conventional in that regard, to satisfy her insatiable need for excess.

"Sixty-four pages," Victoria murmured, raising a hand to her forehead. She tipped her head back, so it rested at his waist. He pushed against her gently, rocking back and forth.

"It's no letter to you. Obviously, using your name is only a literary device. And she says nothing she hasn't said before. The Honorable Mrs. Norton has been too long out of the public eye, and seeks to reclaim her share of attention."

"Well, she's had as much of my attention as I can spare. Shall I write a response to the paper?"

"No," Melbourne answered immediately. "Consult with Russell or the Chancellor if you wish, but my strong feeling is no. Your response, whatever it might be, would end up in the papers, or in a second edition of her pamphlet."

"Well, she's gotten more of my time than I prefer to give her. As she says, the throne is powerless to redress her supposed wrongs. Shall we ride? It's been so long, that my beautiful Adagio will have quite forgotten me."

"With pleasure, ma'am. In the park, and no cantering…?"

"Oh you!" Victoria pretended to swat at him with the back of her hand, but then swayed against him, bumping him with her shoulder. "No cantering for _you_, either. We must take care for my little passenger and your poor back."

Melbourne was pleased by the flirtatious sidelong glance she gave him. He twirled her around as though they were dancing, then pulled her against him and lowered his lips to hers.

"My darling, my precious girl," he growled against her mouth. "Do you have any idea how very happy you make me?" He kissed her, tasting sweet and savory, ripe cherries and cinnamon. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, they made their way down the corridor, walking under the envious eyes of her predecessors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would anyone be interested in reading Caroline Norton's entire 64-page pamphlet entitled "Letter to the Queen"? Excerpts will appear in upcoming chapters.


	12. Chapter 12

She had slid from the saddle to the mounting block and from there, careful to not lean too heavily, into his outstretched arms. Grooms stood by, waiting impassively to take their horses away.

Despite banked clouds, and a rawness to the air which seemed to promise snow, their ride had been a lovely departure from business. A brisk trot over the back lawns, even a modest jump over an easily-cleared perennial hedge, and from there to the adjacent park. Not the canter she and the horse both longed for, but enough to get one's blood flowing. Victoria soon grew warm enough to think of unfastening her heavy wool cloak, but the memory of William's careful fingers working the buttons stayed her impulse. Such small gestures, yet so powerful, made her feel cared for and _cherished_.

He sat his horse so elegantly, Victoria thought, stealing sidelong glances. _I will never grow accustomed, and never tire of looking at this husband of mine! _Buckskin riding breeches stretched taut over muscular thighs, caped greatcoat accentuating the breadth of his shoulders – she sighed with pleasure, at his polished male beauty.

The park was sparsely peopled, on such a cold November day. A team of workmen clearing fallen branches, the occasional phaeton or tilbury – open despite the weather – bearing expensively costumed wives, intent on showing off new muffs and stoles. Their presence and hopeful preening branded them _nouveau riche_ and new to the London social scene. The very best families would not venture forth until nightfall, when they would be whisked from Mayfair or Piccadilly town-homes to the opera or theatre.

Melbourne touched the brim of his hat, saluting each carriage they passed. They would regale their friends for a fortnight with descriptions of His Lordship's striking good looks and gallantry.

Victoria looked ahead, her face composed in a mask of pleasant neutrality, grateful that the season meant no more than a handful of such encounters. She might have had the park closed – certainly a hundred years before, her great-grandfather would have done so without a second thought – but preferred their old spontaneity, remembering all those rides in the early days. Then, no matter how pressing the claims of duty, Lord Melbourne would ride out with her daily. Always attended by a small knot of courtiers, but it was Lord M who rode at her side. And they talked – oh, how they talked! Easy, laughing, witty and wise, jumping from one topic to another without pause. Lord M quipped that the pleasure to be found in _discourse_ trumped that of _intercourse_ as the secret to a successful marriage.

They made two walking circuits of the park, their horses closely aligned, and Victoria lost all track of time in her enjoyment of her husband's rich, drawling voice.

"Oh!" she interrupted, remembering. "I think we must go back."

"If you say so, ma'am," he answered agreeably. Then, brow arched quizzically. "Have you some pressing engagement?"

"I – I forgot I must be remeasured. For my ballgown. My waistline and bust are increasing, and the ball is only a few weeks away."

"We can't keep the dressmaker waiting." And he turned his larger gelding. Adagio followed suit unbidden, so they faced back the way they had come.

"_Modiste_," Victoria corrected, already feeling vaguely guilty at the necessary prevarication. _I haven't _said_ Madame is coming_, she told herself, knowing that she had given that impression. The idea of following her to the dressers' floor, to a workroom filled with chattering seamstresses and dressmakers' models, would persuade him to busy himself elsewhere.

"And I – I have reading to do." She added the last as a sop to her conscience; she _did_ have reading to do.

"Very well," he said blandly. "Shall we cut cross country, and let them stretch their legs?"

They stopped under the south portico, and Victoria watched Melbourne dismount. If he held himself somewhat carefully, there was no other sign of lingering pain in his back. She breathed a sigh of relief. When he bent to kiss her she cupped his neck with one gloved hand, then nibbled playfully at his bottom lip. _I will never grow accustomed to kissing, either_, she told herself. One could not possibly anticipate all the delights of marriage, and kissing was certainly underrated.

"I will leave you here. I want to pop in to the conservatory and choose some flowers for my bride."

He strode away, walking easily, slapping his gloves into the palm of his hand. A few curls escaped the confines of his hat, and the silver shone like new coins.

♛

Riding habit discarded, morning dress hastily buttoned, Victoria paused only long enough so that her dresser could tidy her hair.

"Measure my waistline, Skerrett," she demanded. "For the new ballgown."

Victoria knew that the gesture was no more than a childish attempt to give truth to a lie, but she would not, _could not_, forgo it. Lord M had once said truth was overrated; he meant it flippantly, as so many things he said. _But in some circumstances, if no harm was meant, wasn't it better to avoid mention of certain things one wished to keep private? Only to spare the feelings of another?_

Her dresser applied the dressmaker's tape, measuring the circumference of her waist. The number might have been cause for distress, if she was not so pleased by the cause.

"Very well. Please send a note round to _Madame_ with the new measure. So she can make any alterations necessary before my next fitting."

Victoria's heart beat so loudly she thought the hall pages might hear it when she passed by, unescorted. They were too well-trained and disciplined to show surprise, but if the Queen walking alone was unusual, the Queen carrying something was worth the risk of a quick whispered aside, one to the other.

She turned the knob of an unmanned door and slipped inside. There was no light within and she dared not light a candle – there were no gas lamps in the service passages – but memory told her the Minister's staircase was straight ahead. If she turned sharply right she would come out in a closet – an anteroom – at the end of the Audience Chamber. There was nothing on the calendar, so the space would be unoccupied and private enough for her needs. Thankfully the small chamber had a tall narrow window. She clumsily tugged the draperies apart, and settled down on a wooden bench to read.

Victoria was as fearful as she was determined. The words already seemed to throb with a life of their own. But _sixty-four pages_ – surely even Mrs. Norton would not find a publisher if they conveyed no more than an oblique attack on the Crown, or another in her endless series of complaints, bewailing mistreatment by all and sundry? And what former mistress, no matter how self-involved and certain, would write a missive intended to rekindle dead affection in the heart of a lover, and have the Daily News publish installments?

She despised her own fear of _La Norton_ and all she represented. _Would I have been happy with a green boy? With Albert, if he had not confessed his attraction to his own sex? Could I have learned to be happy, if it meant not sharing him with a past, replete with wife, children, mistresses galore?_ Each time she asked herself the question, the answer was unequivocal, a resounding _no! _Not only poor dear Cousin Albert; when she replaced his name and image with that of another young man, any of the dozens of substitute princes with which Europe was well-supplied, mind and heart rejected in unison anyone who was not William Lamb. _An older gentleman then, but one who had no scandal attached to his name? _Victoria envisioned the few men of that description – bloodless, thin-lipped, paper-skinned, fastidious and sober, exemplary pillars of Church and State but devoid of humor and sparkle and charm. _No, no, a thousand times no. It had to be him, only, always, forever HIM._

_Then that is your answer,_ Victoria always told herself at this point in her musings. You wanted, and needed, a fully-formed _man_ who had lived. A man who brought his experience with him, and opened your senses to a world you would otherwise never know. Lord M, with his kind eyes and quaint expressions, his lazy humor and tender heart poorly concealed by a sophisticated veneer, was the only man she could ever love, and that meant she would love _all_ of him. The experiences which shaped him, the memories which defined him, all the components of a well-lived life, made him who he was when he found her, and that included – at this point, Victoria always grimaced, swallowing past a sour taste at the back of her throat – the Honorable Mrs. Caroline Norton with her snapping black eyes, gentle Emily Eden with her books and long gossipy letters, Lady Elizabeth Branden and her penchant for naughty letters, and the ghost of Caro Lamb.

Duty compelled her to read the creature's pamphlet, and duty compelled her to understand. She must carefully parse the voluminous pages, and consider the core thesis on its merits.

Somewhere in these crossed lines, the flowing feminine hand, there might be the kernel of an idea worth considering, some viewpoint which Victoria had not previously considered. She _was_ the Queen of these fair isles, as the authoress so archly put it, and it was her duty to find if she could whatever core truth lay behind all the blather.

And she had to do it in private. Victoria knew that she was not nearly as poised, as complacent and in control of her feelings as she persuaded Melbourne. If she would rage and weep and gnash her teeth, exhort the Almighty to cast that creature into the pits of hell, pound her fists on the cushions, then she would do so where it would not hurt William. He became so distressed, so defensive and contrite, that there was no way she could make her way past emotion to apply the impartial logic her duty required, when he watched her with those beautiful sad eyes.

Two hours passed, then three, and still Victoria did not look away. She had taken copious notes, cryptic bits and pieces. She had underlined key passages and struck out others with heavy, angry black strokes. What remained for the Queen – that distant, detached, impotent queen who must be lectured like a recalcitrant schoolgirl – was a few relevant points that required further scrutiny.

The Custody of Infants Act had been passed in 1839, and marked a sea change in the way child custody was considered. Victoria had signed the bill and given little thought to its aftermath, but seemingly it was only a beginning. France, most Germanic states, even Leopold's Belgium, recognized females as separate, sentient beings. England, on the other hand, still considered a wife as one with her husband in the eyes of the law. Transported prisoners, former Bermudan slaves, indentured servants and impressed seamen all had at least some individual rights under law, and livestock and domestic animals some protections. Short of murder and grievous bodily assault – seen as offenses against the peace of the State – there was nothing a husband might not do to his wife, because he was in effect doing it to himself.

A woman divorced from her husband might be seen to benefit from the provisions of the new law which permitted a mother to petition the courts for custody of her children up to the age of seven, and for access in respect of older children. But – and here, Victoria had doubly underlined Mrs. Norton's prose – a woman could not _be_ divorced, unless her husband permitted, and could not pay the fees necessary to be heard in court, when her husband held all funds in his name.

Even a wife who earned her own wage – of course, Norton used herself as an example – had no claim to that wage; it belonged to her husband, as did any inheritance. A widow's estate transferred to her husband when she remarried, and a separate endowment – here, the bile rose to Victoria's throat, because it was the annuity Melbourne settled on her that she spoke of – likewise became the husband's to dispose of as he chose.

There are inequities – rank injustice, if these things are true, Victoria suddenly understood. No male legislator had the stomach to renew the push to meddle further in the business of marriage, but Norton aside – _if only I could push her fully aside, out of the picture, the country, the hemisphere!_ – it _was_ a shameful injustice to fully half of the population.

_And if was true – can it be? – that we are the sole civilized nation to cling to such medieval customs, then that harpy is right when she says that it makes a mockery of me, a Queen Regnant, the only woman in the United Kingdom who cannot be subject to laws upheld in my name._

_Certainly, no one was seriously proposing that females should have a public role in the life of the nation. Female suffrage was ridiculous; what next? That women should stand for office, and take a place in the House of Commons? Sit as a law judge?_ Victoria laughed harshly, imagining the foes of reform would hold up such impossibilities as a reason to maintain the status quo.

Cottenham \- Lord High Chancellor, responsible for the efficient functioning and independence of the courts, Victoria wrote across the top margin of her own page, a reminder to summon him on the morrow. She hunched over the paper, narrowing her eyes to make out the passages she had copied, Norton's words and her own thoughts. The difficulty in seeing her own handwriting finally pierced Victoria's concentration, and she realized that daylight had nearly fled. She stuffed the pamphlet and her writing materials into the satchel she had carried with her, and hurried back to her own apartment.

♛

Her Household was assembled in the drawing room, ladies coiffed and powdered, gentlemen smart in tailcoats and fresh linen. As she glanced beyond, into the smaller dining room – small being a relative term – the long table was already set, and flowers mingled their fragrance with that of beeswax and lemon polish.

Melbourne turned to greet her, and her mother came around the far end of the table.

"Look at the lovely flowers! William begged my help to arrange them. Servants can never get such things just right and – Drina! What happened to you? Is that _dirt_ on your face?"

Victoria frowned, cursing herself for not having gone first to her own chamber, to wash and dress for dinner. Only her haste to find William and reassure him, had propelled her into company in such a disheveled state.

"Never mind, Mama," she said crisply. "I am on my way to change for dinner. I only – William, I am sorry if you were concerned. I would have sent word but I lost track of time."

Victoria willed herself to stop talking, to cease making excuses. She focused on Melbourne's face instead, the perfectly molded features, the loving kindness in his sleepy eyes. His collar was brilliantly, blindingly white, his neckcloth artfully arranged so the points just grazed his jaw. Victoria's lips curled into an appreciative smile.

"I quite lost track of time myself. Duchess, you can attest to my own state of disarray."

Her mother simpered, fluttering her lashes in a not-so-subtle flirtation.

"Oh, you! This one, Drina, he was cutting flowers and full of mud, with his feet quite wet. The two of you – one would think there are no servants to attend to such things! Tsk! Go now, slip out the back and return when you are presentable."

Feeling herself dismissed, Victoria rebelled.

"What lovely flowers! Will you tell me what they mean?"

Melbourne huffed a small laugh and picked up her hand. He pressed it to his lips, and as he did so Victoria registered the blue-and-black ink stains on her fingers.

"Do you remember or shall I tell you? Green-and-white caladium for great joy, ivy for our friendship – friendship in marriage being the greatest of gifts a benevolent Maker can bestow - and mint, for warmth of feeling. This one?" he prompted. Victoria searched her memory, but could not recognize the feathery foliage. "White gooseneck loosestrife for all my wishes granted, and white carnation to express my admiration. And of course, red roses for –"

"For true and lasting love," Victoria finished. She deliberately turned, and since he still held her hand he had no choice but to follow her to the door.

"I've been working," she murmured.

"I have no doubt," Melbourne answered sotto voce. "If you required my assistance I trust you would have asked."

"Very true," Victoria agreed, teasing now. She sighed. "I needed to understand – some points of law – I will explain later. Now, I really must wash and change. Must you keep Mama company, or will you walk with me?"

"I don't dare abandon her now. She truly did save me from my own humiliation. Flower arranging is an art I haven't perfected. Go – I'll be here when you return."

Such an odd turn of phrase, Victoria thought.

"I left _Lingua Flora_ on your dressing table," he said cryptically. Using his bulk to shield her from her mother's scandalized gaze, Melbourne leaned down to find her mouth. He kissed her tenderly, taking his time. "'I love you' is rather inadequate, but it will have to do. You are my everything, Mrs. Melbourne. Now, go! Before we shock your poor mother into a fit of the vapors."

_Enduring, eternal, all-encompassing love._


	13. Chapter 13

_He sleeps peacefully... convulsions have stopped…Dear William… his countenance still beautiful despite the ravages of grief and time…I fear we near the end…write the queen…long since forgotten him, save only dutiful letters……does not deserve to forget him…did not deserve his love……all that behind him now…such an extraordinary look of contentment and resignation and peace…_

_Words that meant no more than the susurrant music of the tides. An ecstasy of sorts, disembodied absence of turmoil and pain. Thick cottony mist, swaddling, cocooning, yet he was free to soar. Fly free above all burden of flesh, warm yellow light replacing pervasive gloom that had become his lot._

_He could put a name to the voices, had he cared to try – _Emily_ and _Fanny_ and even, once, _Carry_, strident and martial, demanding entrance. But _try_ was one more chain he had thrown off, mortal coil. The price of peace, blissful celestial rest, was relinquishment of all earthly ties._

"Breath, William, breath! I command it! You must!" Victoria's pupils were dilated pools of black, was the first thing he noted; the second, that her small curled fist was striking his chest, again and again.

A strand of brown hair was caught at the side of her mouth. Her face was red with exertion and perspiration trickled down a cheek.

He complied at once, of course he did. Melbourne dragged in air, inhaling hungrily as he felt his lungs expand. His body, starved of oxygen, compelled repetition of that life-saving act and for several long moments he greedily gulped more, gasping as though he'd run a race.

Victoria sat back on her haunches, only then wiping tears and mucous and sweat on the sleeve of her gown.

"You've done it before," she said, her voice low and somber and devoid of inflection. "When you stop snoring, I think. But always before you started again on your own. This time –"

Her voice broke. Melbourne watched helplessly, confused, his thoughts still unpleasantly muddled. Victoria's face crumpled and she began sobbing violently.

"This time I thought you were – I thought you were leaving me," she managed to say. Melbourne lifted a hand, weakly beckoning her forward, but Victoria remained as she was, seated on her haunches.

"I thought I was too," he replied, recalling that floating, drifting sensation so suddenly wrenched away.

"I was dreaming, I suppose. Emily was there…and Fanny, and…oh, I suppose the whole family, assembled at my deathbed."

"You _suppose_?" Victoria's voice was unpleasantly shrill, a quavering falsetto. "I am sick of those dreams. This is your life, William. Our life, our only life, and a merciful God would not take you so soon. You must go to church, or speak to the Dean. Something, to rid yourself – rid _us_ – of those tormenting visions."

She swung her arm wildly, dashing bric-à-brac off of a small bedside table. Not content, she leaned over as far as she dared, found a discarded slipper and flung it at her cream-and-gilt dressing table. It landed low-center, smashing a vase holding purple flowers.

"What is the date?" Melbourne croaked, wishing she had spared at least the water-glass.

"Date?" Dark brows came together in a mighty frown. "Date? Why does it – the 24th of November. Why on earth do you ask?"

"No reason," he answered, perplexed. "I only wanted to know."

"24 November 1846," Victoria said firmly. He was relieved to see she had gained control of her emotions. "Liam will be six in exactly one month. We will be married three years at the end of December. It is entirely too soon to even contemplate leaving me, William Lamb. Do you understand? Do you? Why do you laugh, damn it?"

She was angry, Melbourne knew, because anger was safer than fear, and left her some semblance of control. She bit off each word as though it were a weapon with which to bludgeon him into submission, and ended by pummeling his chest once more, this time with two determined fists.

He allowed her to land several blows with such force he feared his ribs would be bruised, after. Then he gripped her elbows and tumbled her roughly so she landed on her back, and took her without ceremony. If she would channel her dark energy into action, he decided, then so would he.

She restrained him, after, with legs crossed behind his back, and he was content to remain as long as he could.

"Mrs. Melbourne, you do add spice to an ordinary wakening," he crooned, searching the darkness in her eyes. Such impetuosity –he chose the word with circumspection – was not ordinarily his way and he wondered at her avid response. Victoria did not answer, only clenched her muscles so tightly he groaned at the pain-pleasure.

"You. Are. Mine. All. Mine." She punctuated each word with a rippling contract-and-release, holding his gaze.

Physiology ultimately prevailed, and as their connection was broken so was the brittle shell of her anger. Victoria made herself small, curling against him, burying her face in his shoulder.

"Do you want to sleep again?" he whispered. He himself would not. Usually he was the one to resist early waking, but today sleep held no more appeal.

"No. If you do, I will watch over you."

"Then shall we dress ourselves and sneak out to watch the sun rise?"

They had gone to Windsor for the weekend, and delayed their return to receive foreign visitors. It being a Tuesday, the Privy Council was due to make the fifteen-mile trip and convene in the chambers devoted to their deliberations.

As was most often the case, in the aftermath of a particularly potent nightmare – or vision, as Victoria had superstitiously named it – Melbourne felt suffused by mellow contentment leavened by a strong sense of well-being. He likened the phenomenon to that of his migraines, the fierce sick headaches which had tormented him since adolescence. Those, too, rewarded agony with the near-ecstasy of relief.

They ignored the gas lamps and lit a single candle, which Victoria held while Melbourne explored the depths of her closet. She was child-like in her inability to attend to herself – buttons and fasteners, even the laces on her boots, were confusing devices – and so Melbourne assumed the role of lady's maid. He found a simple wool dress with plain buttons up the back, and by raising the waistline, they were able to achieve satisfactory results. When he'd fastened the last of the buttons, he stooped to plant a kiss at her navel, where her womb bulged most prominently.

Her wraps and cloaks were in another long closet, at the foot of the stairway leading to the dressers' floor. Rather than risk discovery, they used a coat of his and Victoria wore it around her shoulders like a cape.

Melbourne hurriedly dressed himself, then took her hand and walked with her down the empty corridors. Near to dawn, the night pages retired and would soon be replaced by housemaids scurrying to and fro, cleaning the unoccupied private and state apartments. They passed through the State Apartments rather than chance discovery by walking down the corridor which housed visitors.

"The Round Tower," Melbourne said in an exaggerated stage whisper, his conspiratorial air earning a grin from Victoria. The Round Tower, located between the Lower and Upper Wards, was one of the oldest parts of the castle. It commanded a dizzying view of the surrounding countryside and, if one mastered the 200 steps to the top, a spectacular aspect.

Hand-in-hand, they commenced the climb. At intervals one or the other would cautiously question the other. Finally, Melbourne stopped and drew Victoria close.

"As much as I appreciate the impulse, madame, your solicitousness quite unmans me. _You_ are in a delicate condition, therefore it is my duty to ascertain your well-being."

Victoria, to his relief, took no offense. She ducked her head in a sheepish gesture, then stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"I am your wife, and it is my duty to care for your well-being."

They laughed together and continued at an easier pace. When they reached the top, it took an effort for Melbourne to open the heavy door barring further passage. A strong wind blew off the Thames, nearly toppling Victoria before she could rebalance herself.

Melbourne spread his feet in a commanding stance and bodily moved her into the shelter of his arms. He opened the flaps of the coat he wore and wrapped the fabric around her.

Far off in the distance, the jagged horizon was still dark against a lightening sky. While they watched, the outline resolved itself into the spires and rooftops of London. The promised sun did rise, but shrouded in mist. Rather than announcing itself in a blaze of glory, daylight simply _was_. What had been only mysterious violet shadows, suddenly became familiar and homely once more.

"Disappointed?" Melbourne whispered his thought aloud, his lips hovering just over her ear.

"No; how could I be? We have a new day, you and I, and we watched it arrive together."

Victoria made no move to leave; she only shifted position minutely, squirming further into the shelter of his coat.

"The painters favor sunset, to convey a sense of beauty and romantic promise. I find them rather melancholy, as endings always are. Sun rises, on the other hand, promise a clean slate upon which to write, the gift of another whole day."

He spoke idly, only to fill the silence, but Victoria hung on his every word. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, blazing with an emotion beyond even love.

"And you, my darling? Which do you prefer?" Melbourne chucked her under the chin, to break the spell and restore balance between them. He had glimpsed the devastation which his eventual demise might leave in its wake. Such a thing was unbearable to contemplate, that in dying he might cause the destruction of all he held dear. He _would_ make her strong enough to survive him; she _must_ remain true to the glorious creature within. Without waiting for Victoria to answer, he continued.

"Every sunset is followed by a new day, and every new day dies in its turn. It's folly to prefer one or the other, since both are part of life. And life, my darling, is so very beautiful. Every day is a gift. Remember that when I am not here to remind you. A part of me will always be near. If I think you are squandering a single moment, I will come back and put you over my knee."

Melbourne swatted her backside smartly, and without layered petticoats it had an immediate effect.

"You speak so profoundly, and then are silly," Victoria observed. "I never know when to take you seriously."

"You must always take me only as seriously as I deserve. I am not certain of many things – there are always too many conflicting opinions to be sure which one holds ultimate truth – but I am certain of this. You are an exceptional woman, stronger than you know. If I have had a little part in helping you become all you were meant to be, then my life was worth something. And if the alternative were to be true, that my devotion weakened you instead…"

"You make me sad when you speak like that, Lord M. Please – pray tell me – "

"No, no, my dear girl – don't be sad. Hear that?" Victoria tilted her head, listening, looking puzzled.

"That is my stomach growling. It is thoroughly confused by this early rising. How is our little princeling? Does he still sleep?"

"He does, but I can still sense him. His kicks are gentle stirrings, but soon he will have a pattern of sleeping and rising. Lily and Liam –"

Melbourne held tightly to her arm as they descended the stone stairs. He listened to her talk of their unborn child, of the minutiae of household management – at least, he thought, as his very sheltered and well-tended wife understood it – and the separate and overlapping appointments on their working calendars.

He had very nearly shed effects of his dream state, yet was troubled by its physical manifestation. That had never happened before, to the best of his knowledge, and it felt vaguely as though something ominous stretched its tentacles from that world to this. _Why did I ask the date?_ He wondered. Such a triviality must hold significance, to interject itself at such a time. _But what significance?_ _Where did that question come from, that world or this? _

Even his episode at the parish church in Hatfield, had not felt nearly as vital to understanding the link as this. In St Etheldreda's he had been overcome by the stress of – _what? Premonition, or the proximity of the resting place of his wife and child, where he might have logically expected to be laid at some distant date._

But being jerked into wakefulness – or back to life, as it appeared to Victoria – whilst on the very edge of the abyss, had left him deeply unsettled, wondering what would happen if he died in his dream state. Would his mind compel him to follow? Or was the opposite true – if his body were in truth dying, from his heart stopping or some other cause, did the awareness follow him into the ether, so that what happened in _this_ life affected that other?

Melbourne had little religious sensibility, but an insatiable appetite to know. He had long studied spiritual writings, seeking some elusive truth. The trappings of churchgoing and public piety were at odds were his nature, although he objectively considered the Church of England the least objectionable, least _interfering_, of the lot.

It was tempting to immerse himself in his books, as much to moderate the emotional discomfort of his questions as to search for the answers within. Melbourne decided to go against the grain, and do as Victoria suggested. He would engage in an indirect discussion with Blomfield, the Bishop of London, whose mind was privately at least quite open to a range of possibilities well beyond Church canon.

"What the devil were ye doing up there at the crack of dawn?"

Billy Cameron slouched out of a guard's room. His caped coat made him appear even taller, and without a hat to confine it, his long hair unfurled like a flag. Melbourne deduced, by a more-than-usually disheveled appearance and the rough dark growth on his chin, that Billy was only just returning from a night on the town.

"Ma'am." Cameron's hazel eyes sparkled with mirth, giving lie to the formal address as he briefly bowed from the neck.

"I saw you come up and thought about following you. To be sure of your safety."

"That was very diligent, Billy. To be awake and alert to the possibility that we might appear at the Tower before dawn."

"You're more likely to come to harm 65 metres in the air than you are down here," he waved toward the surrounding parkland and the still glassine surface of the Thames.

"Besides, I haven't had the pleasure of your company in a spell." He yawned, making his jaws crack.

Melbourne sniffed, his nostrils twitching in anticipation.

"Camp coffee, the way we make it in garrison," Cameron answered before he could ask. "Not your fancy French _frou frou _concoction, but does the job."

Melbourne accepted a tin cup filled to overflowing, and unconsciously mirrored the bigger man's posture, leaning against the old stone wall. He grinned into his drink, watching Victoria pat her hair, still hanging loose over her shoulders, and smooth the front of her dress.

"You look fine, Mrs. Melbourne. Especially well, considering the hour."

"So says a man with little experience," Victoria said drily. "Of what females look like in the morning. And none at all of living with one woman under the same roof."

"You shock me, casting aspersions about things no decent woman knows. And I beg leave to contradict you, but I've lived under one roof with a woman for nigh on four years now. A very, very _big_ roof, I'll grant you, but you _are_ a woman and this _is_ a roof."

Melbourne had enjoyed hearing Victoria's teasing banter, until he no longer did.

"Thank you for the coffee," he said, emptying the cup of its dregs. "Now I must take my wife inside, before she and our child catch a chill."

Victoria laid her hand lightly on the forearm Melbourne presented, and he led her out of the Round Tower and through the open area of the Middle Ward. He imagined Billy's eyes on them, and felt torn between pity and pride.

"William, I have been inquiring into some of the points made in that _Open Letter_."

Melbourne was not surprised; he had expected as much, and waited for her to discuss the matter with him. It was not usual, according to their custom, that she did _not_ bring issues of law and government to his attention, so that she could think aloud, seek context and even counsel, and clarify her own thoughts.

"I think I know where I stand, and what I would like to see happen. Of course, I will not express it that plainly to Lord Grey, but I have had several private conversations with Cottenham. I would –" and her cool veneer melted away. "I would like if we could discuss it first, so I can clarify precisely what I want to say."

She went on to explain why she had read the full text of Mrs. Norton's letter in private, and when. He was only slightly surprised at her ingenuity, less at her poor concealment, having guessed her intent that afternoon she secluded herself for so long with a dressmaker who never arrived.

Melbourne listened to that sweet, clear voice, infused with an animation only he was fully privileged to hear.

He had his own thoughts and feelings on the subject of the law's involvement in marriage, informed by his attachment to that central premise inaccurately attributed to Hippocrates, _primum non nocere_. The avoidance of any action which might result in unintended harm must stay the hand of any overzealous minister, Melbourne believed. The consequences of reform could not be fully anticipated, and as a result, should be deferred until inaction was no longer sustainable. Then, and only then, should one proceed, firmly and without hesitation, but also without sweeping, overbroad measures.

Thankfully, it no longer fell to him to determine what course of action the country should pursue. It was scarcely more Victoria's, but she saw herself as the conscience of the nation.

"It's not that I want to encourage divorce – quite the opposite. I do not believe that one should put personal happiness before duty, if the two cannot co-exist. Marriage exists for the orderly transfer of property, through the mechanism of primogeniture, which ensures estates remain intact from one generation to the next."

At this, she looked at him archly and pursed her lips in an adorable little moue. Melbourne consider kissing her then and there. It was one of the doctrines he had taught her, whilst explaining the presumption of legitimacy of any child born to a legally wed mother.

"And I do not suggest, as Mrs. Norton proposes, expanding the rights of women in any regard. I do think we need to remove any language which is used to favor the rights of men. Thus, both parties are equal in the eyes of the law, as they should be. It was decided in '39 that the best interests of the children must be paramount, and outweigh the claims of either parent. I only suggest refining that further, to define exactly how such interests are determined. As for access to the Courts – there, I suppose, I might be accused of a more radical stance. But if magistrates were paid a fair wage by the State, and precluded from accepting emoluments beyond their salary – why then, it would give everyone, rich or poor, equal access to the courts and prevent greedy individuals from selling their influence to benefactors."

Victoria spoke fluently, Melbourne observed, more so than when she was in the early stages of developing an opinion. He would offer some mild alternative arguments, if and when he was asked, but decided that in the main, her solution was as neat as any he might have recommended. It satisfied the need to avoid actual _reform_, while in fact accomplishing exactly that. There was no explicit expansion of women's rights, no affirmative action which could be cited as undue advantage.

"Well?" And just like that she was a girl again, looking to him as though he were a schoolmaster and she, a pupil hoping to win honors at end of term. "What do you think?"

"Shall I answer you here, or would you like to defer this until later?" he asked, glancing around them at the busyness of early morning.

They had retraced their steps through the State apartments, where housemaids had been brushing the carpets and footmen on ladders applied feather dusters to the chandeliers. The long corridor bisecting their own family apartment wing was empty of servants, but clinking of china and rumbling of carts told of the breakfast room being readied.

"You don't agree?" Victoria asked in a rush, her face stricken with doubt.

"Ma'am, I said no such thing. If I must give a summary judgment now, it can only be this." He bowed over her hand, raising it to his lips.

"I think you are as wise as you are beautiful, and gracious and good. A credit to your teacher, I daresay." Melbourne added the last with a grin at odds with the tenderness in his eyes.

"All I am and will be, is due to that teacher," she whispered, the words floating on her breath.


	14. Chapter 14

_Albert Dock, Liverpool_

Henry Howard, 13th Duke of Norfolk, was Victoria's Master of the Horse. He oversaw travel arrangements for the Royal family, amongst his purely ceremonial duties, and as such coordinated Lord Melbourne's upcoming trip to Manchester and Liverpool. Melbourne might have easily met with Norfolk in either of their palace offices, but instead sent word that he would go down to the Mews.

The Royal Mews were south of the palace gardens, near Grosvenor Square. An expansive complex of classical brick buildings designed by Nash during the last George's short-lived reign enclosed luxurious stables and a vast indoor riding ring. Melbourne's calculated route took him past the upper terrace, a broad flat expanse of winter-brown grass where the children were playing.

Prince William and Princess Elizabeth shared their schoolroom with several cousins and the like-aged offspring of the Queen's attendants, and even a few upper servants' promising sons. The pupils were divided into two groups, Liam with the older boys and girls and Lily with her own cohort.

Every member of the raucous little pack was heavily bundled against the cold. With no more than eyes showing between woolen mufflers and hoods, he nonetheless instantly knew his own. Lily looked adorably, comically round in her thick coat, and when she ran to meet him he thought she might topple over and go rolling down the incline.

"Sweetheart!" he gasped, catching her by the waist and lifting her up.

"My best Papa!" Lily chortled in return, placing mittened hands on his cheeks. Melbourne shifted her to one hip and looked around for her brother. Liam, smaller and younger than the other boys in his group, was fully engaged in some game that entailed much shouting while he relied on the agility of his small stature to evade those in pursuit. An attentive nursemaid followed the direction of his gaze and was poised to rush into the fray just as Liam dove for a burly ten-year-old's legs and succeeded in bringing him down.

By the hooting and backslapping, Melbourne assumed it was all in fun; Liam scrambled to his feet and shook the other fellow's hand. His cheeks were red, and his eyes sparkling; his lips were parted in a pleased grin.

"Shall we take a walk to see the horses?" Melbourne asked, already sure of the answer.

Lily energetically nodded her assent and squirmed out of his grip. She immediately taunted her brother with the promised excursion, and Liam ran to join them.

Melbourne beamed down at the pair, the boy who grew more like him in appearance every day and the little minx with Victoria's big blue eyes and quick temper.

_What an extraordinary thing it is, to have a daughter!_ The thought came without invitation, as it did so often. He had often heard it said, that men favored daughters and women were partial to sons, but given the matter little thought. He loved both his children equally and considered them perfectly splendid beings, yet there was a decided _difference_. He had been utterly smitten by the kitten-sized pink lump they'd placed in his hands, had held her against his bare chest during those precarious first days and only fell more deeply in thrall as she grew.

Liam's knitted cap was askew, and his sandy curls tumbled into his eyes. Melbourne tenderly pushed them back and smiled into his son's eyes.

"Do you want to stay with your friends, or come with us to the stable?"

He saw indecision in those clear grey eyes, and ruefully recognized the first signs of youthful independence. _Six! _Melbourne reflected. _Entirely natural, that he should prefer the company of his little gang._ It gave him a pang nonetheless, and hid his relief when Liam picked up his cap and reached for Melbourne's hand.

"I'd like to go with you, please."

Norfolk had Melbourne's neatly lettered itinerary, bound in a dark blue leather folder embossed with the Royal Seal. He would travel by train – private cars on the newest commercial railroad - to Salford, part of Greater Manchester. After a formal ceremony to welcome him, Melbourne would give a speech in Peel Park, then overnight in Ellesmore's country home and journey to Liverpool the next morning.

While Melbourne and Norfolk briefly discussed the few remaining decisions – minor points of timing and the form of address to be used in the programme – they took the children into the stables.

Lily was infatuated with her mother's silver mare. The horse was preposterously large under Victoria; Lily was so insignificant beside the animal that Melbourne feared her being trampled underfoot. Adagio was gentle, intelligent and _kind_, if such a concept might be applied to a horse. She whinnied in anticipation, as though knowing herself the star attraction, and Lily bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet.

"Princess, Adagio has a new friend," Norfolk said, winking at Melbourne as he unfastened the door.

Liam's first pony was a poor bedraggled thing, retired from work in the mines, who found himself in service to a prince. Elderly and swaybacked, no one had the heart to do what might be expected, and so he enjoyed a comfortable retirement.

The portly little horse shared Adagio's stall, and looked up sleepily at the new arrivals.

"It's not unusual for a thoroughbred to be given a companion," the Duke unnecessarily explained. "And Adagio took a liking to this one."

When the pony struggled to his feet, his withers scarcely reached the top of Adagio's legs. Lily would have rushed in, if Melbourne had not caught the back of her hood and asked to have both horses led out into the center ring. He and Norfolk sat on stacked hay bales, while a pair of burly six-foot grooms led the mare with both children on her back.

♛

_William goes to Manchester tomorrow, and from there to Liverpool. These will be his very first _official_ appearances on behalf of the Crown, as a member of the Royal family. Of course he is no stranger to public speaking, as little as he likes it, but he is no longer speaking as a politician. He will be greeted and feted as a royal highness. Not as a Royal Highness, but to the thousands who will turn out to cheer him, it is a distinction without a difference. _

_In Manchester William will dedicate a school; in Liverpool an expansive and very modern warehouse complex that is touted to be the first of its kind, entirely immune to fire and a dock equipped with hydraulic cranes. The Honorable Mr. Ewart, Member of Parliament for that district, lobbied strenuously for our participation in the opening of this grand new edifice, and in my present condition it is not to be expected that I would travel so far to carry out official duties in the dead of winter._

_I am as proud and pleased as I can be, that my darling will be publicly recognized as an integral member of the Royal Family. I am not as pleased by the reason we are invited to the dedication. _

_My cousin's name will be attached to that beastly structure! The Albert This and Victoria-and-Albert That, all for a marriage which existed in name only and for less than three short years! _

_If that isn't enough, everyone – Ellesmere, Sir Robert, Lord Grey and even the military commanders – is unanimous in their insistence that William must process into Salford escorted only by local dignitaries, senior police officials – naturally, unarmed and incapable of mounting a defense to any riotous conduct – and schoolchildren! _

_The incident they call 'Peterloo' happened long ago, but its memory has been kept alive. Manchester has long been a hotbed of unrest, despite my husband's Reform Bill which granted them the representation they demanded. Those are the reasons I am given, for the need to avoid a normal military escort by our own Household Cavalry. Billy's men – and women - will be there, not only in William's traveling party but seeded throughout the crowd. They will carry pistols and be prepared to instantly remove my husband at the first sign of trouble. Billy reassured me in his careless way, and I did not plague him unduly. He has a separate commission to execute for me, one for which I depended on his discretion._

Victoria closed her journal and put aside her pen, her mind on what she had planned in William's absence.

♛

Melbourne and his party had departed the Palace at daybreak and boarded at Charing Cross Station. No one was much inclined to talk at such an early hour, and each man drowsed, lulled by the movement of the train. He himself adjusted a small cushion behind his head and closed his eyes.

The previous day, they had dined alone in their private apartment. Places had been laid at a small round table, and fragrant steam wafted from the silver-domed dishes on a wheeled serving cart. Victoria had ordered with care so that they might dispense with a footman, and she seemed to relish the opportunity to serve him.

Several tries later, Melbourne took over and more or less efficiently dispensed consommé.

"You want to laugh, Lord M. Admit it," Victoria teased. "I am quite helpless at ordinary tasks."

"Nothing of the sort," Melbourne answered, laughing softly despite his denial. "You have many other strings in your bow."

They spoke of inconsequentials, sharing household gossip and the alternately amusing and outrageous things one or the other had heard. Victoria had marginally more success with the next course, managing to transfer Melbourne's fillet of salmon with _potatoes à la Montreuil_ onto his plate before landing a substantial portion of _Allemande_ sauce on the snowy linen table cover.

He had draped his folded napkin over his arm, in the manner of a maitre d'hotel to amuse her.

"Madame, if I may –" he whisked the mess out of sight, then neatly served them both and refilled her glass with Chardonnay wine for good measure.

"Did Mama make you feel bad, that she was not invited to dine with us?" Victoria had dutifully kissed her mother before slipping away, after the children's little play had concluded.

"_Au contraire_, she asked me to beg her pardon. She is having friends to dine, and was eager to return home and oversee the preparations."

The Duchess of Kent had moved into a newly refurbished Clarence House, after declaring Ingestre House too small for entertaining. As Melbourne had predicted, having her own household agreed with Victoria's mother, and enabled her to feel a degree of independence out of Victoria's shadow.

As they ate they spoke of the children. Liam and Lily and the cousins with whom they shared their schoolroom had performed a play based on key scenes from Mr. Dickens' Christmas Carol. It had been planned, down to the costumes and rudimentary scenery, by Madame Hocédé and deemed a great success. Lily, rather than her brother, had performed the part of Tiny Tim. Her dainty stature, if nothing else, fit the role, and if her rosy-cheeked exuberance and two sturdy legs were at odds with the character as written, the audience had been so charmed not even Mr. Dickens himself complained.

Melbourne poured Amontillado while Victoria set out the hot sweet _entremets_, already plated.

"I managed that at least," she announced proudly. Then, sitting down, she took a deep breath.

"Would you like me to read your Liverpool speech?"

Melbourne considered himself an indifferent public speaker. He had only infrequently talked at length in the House, and then to decidedly mixed reviews.

"You can read my notes, if you wish, and add what you like. George will be on the train with me, and able to fill in the many blanks."

"He can tell you all about the construction details. What about Albert? Are you expected to talk about him?"

"It would be difficult not to, I think. My darling, I owe all I have to Albert. My heart, my happiness…my life. I think I can pay him suitable tribute."

"Laud him all you will, for his own considerable attributes. He promoted the advancement of science, he was a patron of the arts and did much to shine a light on the conditions of the poor, advocating for decent housing and even education. But refer to him as my _cousin_ and only that. And for Heaven's sake leave off the _Royal_ designation. He became a prince of England at his naturalization but I never made him a _Royal Highness._"

"It might answer, if Liam were present in Liverpool. He could pull the cord on the plaque, and little more would need to be said."

Melbourne knew that Victoria grasped the impossibility of her desire to erase all mention of her first marriage, so that the next King and the one after that _in perpetuity _be remembered as descendants of William Lamb.

"You are attending the dedication of the _Albert Warehouse and Docks_ as our husband and proxy. That is all the _Royal_ presence they need."

Victoria had allowed him distract her then, laughing at his small jokes. She even left her own dessert untouched and instead sat on his lap to feed him dainty bites of _Apricot Fritters à la Dauphine._

♛

Melbourne smiled at the memory of those small hands tearing bits of _brioche_ to put in his mouth and he warmed at the memory of what came after.

She had inspected the cases his valet had packed, and called for warmer waistcoats, a thick winter-weight dressing gown and several soft knitted mufflers. A weak protest – _the train is heated, my dear _– had no more effect than Baines' offended air.

She watched him pack the books and papers he would take with him but when one portmanteau was bulged and he reached for another, Victoria firmly dissuaded him.

"Who travels with you?" she asked, knowing the answer. When Melbourne named all those who would share the Royal train Victoria appeared gratified in her conclusion.

"You will talk all the way. There is no need to weigh yourself down with the same books you don't read here."

Melbourne gave in only grudgingly, not wanting to concede she was right. He often received unsolicited manuscripts, their authors begging for his commentary and endorsement, and these piled on every available surface where they silently rebuked him for neglect. Two secretaries dealt with his correspondence, but still he could not keep up. He still read several books at a time, going from one to another, but the demands of marriage, as delightful as they were, and official duties too did not leave enough hours in the day to do them justice.

"Must you be such a domineering _wife, _Mrs. Melbourne?" he had pretended to complain at one point. "Don't you have a household to run?"

"A kingdom, but that takes second place to your welfare," she'd answered briskly. "And I can do both. Now finish and come to bed."

He thought he might have asked her once, what her own schedule was like in his absence. If memory served, she had only said something to the effect of visiting her mother's new residence.

Once in their big bed, cozy together under the heavy eiderdown quilts, Victoria had lain contentedly against his chest while he read to her in French from _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_, a first edition inscribed in the author's own hand to _À la belle Lina_.

♛

Victoria had fallen asleep in his arms, soothed by the lullaby of his reading. She awakened later, her mind going back to the one item not listed on her official agenda. It was frightening in a way, but oddly exhilarating too, and she had planned out every detail. What she would say and how she would say it, the information she would seek and how she would receive it. What her demeanor would be – a woman, calm and confident, even charitably kind, dignified but not hiding behind her rank and station – and what she would wear, to set the tone and convey a very precise impression.

Ostensibly at least, what she planned was no different than many similar encounters. Experts of all kinds might be summoned to the palace, to meet with the sovereign and share their particular expertise, elaborate on their opinions. It was not uncommon, that she would meet with those whose opinions she did not share. That was a natural part of her duty to understand competing viewpoints, as Lord M had so often stressed.

Her mind, well-disciplined as it normally was, continually circled back to the question which vexed her; _What will it feel like to be in her presence?_ I am no longer a girl, but a woman, a wife and mother, and am carrying my husband's child. I am a queen, but more important than that, I am the wife of William Lamb.


	15. Chapter 15

_Clarence House 1846_

I had determined to remember everything, to permanently imprint every aspect of this meeting, and to that end recorded each element in my mind, to set down as soon as I returned. This, then, is my account of my meeting with the Queen.

At the appointed hour on the appointed day a plain dark carriage arrived to deliver me. The whole thing smacked of subterfuge, and to say I harbored misgivings would fail to do justice to the state of my nerves.

The note said I could bring my maid, but no one else. My 'maid' was of course my elder sister. Georgie would have entered into the spirit of our little adventure with zest, but she was too well known by the Person. Nell, Lady Dufferin, was quite as notorious as I in literary circles – she was, to my way of reckoning, on her way to becoming an actual bluestocking – but less likely to be immediately detected as an impostor.

Black muslin covered the windows of our conveyance, but I could see well enough to know the direction we took. We came to a stop beside the venerable old St. James Palace, and led through the garden to an elegant limestone abode. Clarence House, then.

The interior was dim and the air heavy with plaster dust. Those rooms we passed were empty of furnishings, and signs of workmen interrupted were all about. Scaffolding and ladders, handsaws and hammers, even a sandwich half-eaten. Nell forgot herself in looking about, and walked beside me rather than in my wake, as a true maid would. No matter, I decided. _She_ would certainly not expect me to come with only a servant for support. Perhaps, even, she would appreciate the discretion of mine own sister, wife to one of her lesser lords.

I doubted that the _lady_ who was our escort was that, any more than Nell was a simple servant. The creature had a look of the stage – who better to know than I, daughter and granddaughter of Sheridans? – and despite her expensive gown and carefully arranged hair, a vigorous long-legged stride. _Ahah_, I thought with no small satisfaction, _this then is one of those female detectives of which I had heard so much_. People tell me such things as evidence of feminine equality. They assume that I follow Mary Wollstonecraft's philosophy, when nothing could be further from the truth.

We traversed a long corridor, and our footsteps on scuffed marble flooring made a great clatter in the vast empty rooms. She would have time to compose herself, I thought, and wondered whether she would. We came then to the last chamber, a drawing room with southern aspect. The windows were shuttered to block all light – and, I suppose, a barrier to prying eyes. And then, just like that, no pages or footmen, no braying announcement by the Chamberlain, we were in The Presence. I had intended to write that, had drafted the phrase. Now, looking at the words and pretentious capitalization, the intended satire falls flat.

Two tapestry armchairs, Louis XIV I thought, and one low gilt table. A candelabra intended for a much larger room, holding only two beeswax candles, freshly light.

I entered on the heels of my guide and threw back my veil in a deliberately dramatic gesture.

_Formidable_. That was my very first impression, long before I could parse its meaning further. Her small stature is commonly known, and my own proportions have been called _Amazonian_ – that, by a gentleman who sought to win my favor.

She wore none of the trappings of royalty. Only very foolish country bumpkins imagine that the sovereign invariably wears a crown. A nice enough gown, dark blue I think, with close-fitted sleeves and a wide collar. Her only jewels were no more than any lady might wear at a morning visit, jeweled hoops no larger than the wedding band on her finger and an unassuming pendant on thin silver chain. She has a king's ransom in priceless diamonds at her disposal, but it was that slender gold band I envied. _His_ wedding ring – with that in place, why would she need any other adornment?

So – formidable, certainly, and more disconcerting, _self-possessed._ Had the creature no nerves at all? She had no heart, I was soon to learn, or none that I could reach. I should cross that last sentence out, strike it from my permanent record, but for now I want only to get it all down while it's still fresh, uncensored.

Nell was dispensed with summarily; the faux lady-in-waiting bobbed a housemaid's curtsy and invited my faux lady's maid to join the absent laborers and partake of refreshments in the basement kitchen.

Her first words set the tone for everything that followed, had I only taken heed. What did she say, in greeting? "Understand what you see as the way forward," I recall, "in the matter which you wrote of so passionately."

Her voice was cool, but not harsh; the sound pleasantly musical. Every word was spoken with cut-glass precision; clearly the result of much childhood exercise in proper enunciation, I thought.

She sat and indicated with a hand gesture that I had permission to do likewise. Already I was at a disadvantage, and it made me seethe inside. When had she, the spoiled _royal girl_, the fragile young bride who visibly trembled in my presence, become _this_? Whether with jealous rage, or anticipation of hurt, it had made no difference in confirming I had the upper hand.

Still, I was here and had her ear, and knew what I would say. I should; I had said it often enough aloud and in print, to ministers and MPs. I had hosted the most illustrious men of our time at my table, was on friendly terms with every notable of our generation. I say _our _because she is only eleven years my junior. My cohort lacks the complacency of our parents; too much has changed too quickly in our world to take anything for granted. My petition – the injustice I've brought to light – has inevitability in its favor.

"…too late to benefit me," I reiterated, relying on the nobility of the sentiment to win some sign of thawing in her cool reserve. Nothing. Only that pleasantly attentive expression, unmoved. Very well…

"My son died, and would have lived had he a mother's attention. Blood poisoning, they said. He fell from his horse, and lay for five days in his bed alone."

"Very painful for you," she murmured, entirely unaffected. I had come to young womanhood in the shadow of the stage. Drama was in my blood; it was not in me to fail, so I redoubled the pathos and tried again.

"That was William, my middle son. I will believe with my last breath that Norton allowed him to perish, because of the prejudice he felt towards my boy for the circumstances of his birth."

There! That was as close as I dare come without spoiling my advantage. She understood, as I knew she would. That little bow mouth tightened just a bit.

"Very unfortunate for all concerned," was all she said. Willie might well have been her own husband's son; none of us knew for sure. Once Norton fought so publicly for his right to custody of all three, it was as good as a declaration. Yet it was not _impossible_ that I had borne the half-brother of the child now growing under her gown. Does that thought stir _nothing_ in her?

"I would like to hear, as I said, what the changes you propose would look like. My advisers have been unable to formulate any plan; they are opposed to changing the law, but have not considered precisely _which_ changes they oppose. Surely you have considered what success would look like, since you pursue _justice_ so avidly?"

In truth, I had not. The _injustice_ was painfully obvious. The Custody of Infants Act of 1839 so closely associated with my sad case permitted a mother to petition the courts for custody of her children up to the age of seven, and for access in respect of older children, but to access the courts required money that mothers rarely possessed. Even in the case of a close and supportive family, the mother must show that she has a home to which she can bring those children and the means to support them. Yet all her wealth is derived from her husband, and even in those rare cases, like my own, where the mother earns her own income, that money can likewise be claimed by the husband.

I expounded on this, struggling to purge my discourse of the dramatic personal rendition which inspired nothing more than a vague distaste in our virtuous queen. She allowed me to speak my piece uninterrupted, and even condescended to listen closely. When I invariably lapsed into some personal instance I was able to quickly self-correct, with a silent prayer of thanks to my father for teaching me how to read an audience.

She questioned me at several junctures, and if I did not like all of her questions, there were none which were unfair or hostile to my position. I strive now to remember what she said in response, and this is the essence.

"I must inform you at the outset that as the Head of the Church, I am most strenuously opposed to divorce, and anything which makes divorce easier to come by is repugnant to me. I also do not believe that women should hold the place in society reserved to men by both natural and Divine law. I do, however, feel that they are human beings deserving of the same fundamental protections as men. While any law which takes _affirmative_ action to show special consideration to females would be detrimental to our society as a whole, it is less objectionable to remove barriers which impose an intrinsic disadvantage to any of our subjects."

The queen's speech was far more comprehensive and equitable than I had previously dared hope – farther, even, than I myself had hitherto been prepared to go. Her reference to a phrase taken almost verbatim from _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_ was very daring. That treatise had been near-universally condemned from the pulpit when it was written, as the world now knows. I myself had not yet been born in '92, but intimate friendship with her daughter, my dear Mary, had given me an almost familial familiarity with the lady.

I am afraid my relief and enthusiasm for the subject caused me to interrupt several times, but she accepted the faux pas with grace and did not remark on it.

She thanked me for my willingness to expand on the points contained in the published LETTER TO THE QUEEN and asked me – although of course it was a command – to prepare a postscript elaborating on exactly the outcome I sought.

_If you couch it in more general terms, and endeavor to be concise, it would more readily win you the popular support you need_, she offered in the spirit of advice. _She_, telling _me_ how to write for publication! Every feeling rebelled, but I held my tongue.

"I am sure you know, that it is a beginning and no conclusion. There is much to be done and I have no power to make law. I am constitutionally charged with the duty to guide and advise, even to warn, no more. I will digest what you prepare for me and ask the Chancellor to respond. Sometimes," and that little smile tightened her lips again. "it primes the pump, so to speak, if they have something to argue _against_. As it is, the gentlemen who advise me are unable to form a cogent argument which goes beyond the status quo."

She extended an offer of refreshments, clearly meant to be declined. I knew by her tone that I would soon be dismissed from The Presence and so I indicated that rattafia or sweet wine would be refreshing. Before she turned to ring the small silver bell on the table I saw a quick look of amusement in those big blue eyes, the first sign of real human warmth.

While we waited she offered some commonplace observation, the inconsequential drawing room talk of two women who are polite to one another, no more. I was glad of it for it gave me the opportunity to gather impressions, for later contemplation.

That she had changed considerably, there was no doubt. I had only seen her at a vast distance in the early days, when William cited her unmarried state as reason why he could not present me. Later, when I curtsied before her at Court, she had been veritably quaking with suppressed emotion. Afraid of me and what I represented, no doubt – and perhaps the threat I still posed? I hoped so, at least. Now, though, there was no fear; no trembling insecurity either.

I was certain that every aspect of this meeting had been choreographed in advance, every impression strategically managed. It's what I would have done in her place. I know I was correct in that supposition, and yet I saw no overt sign of inauthenticity. Her dignity did not allow one to forget her station, and no matter who might have sat in my chair opposite the queen, I doubted her manner would differ. That quick flash of humor was one tiny chink in her crystal armor.

Melbourne had the making of her, the shaping of the queen and the woman in his bed as well. But what was there of him, in her? (The lewd response to this caused me to muffle my laugh, pretending to cough delicately into a lace square.)

Truthfully I could see little or nothing of the William I knew so well. Certainly there was none of his flippancy, that insouciant charm which was the essence of the man. Nothing of his irreverence, or penchant for eccentricity. None of the animal magnetism of the man, in her still small frame. _Stillness_. This was a woman who did not calculate her responses, did not have that _reflective_ quality which most people to some extent possessed. We are all different people depending on occasion, prone to making minute alterations from one moment to the next in pursuit of social acceptability. Was William's playful nonchalance any less a protective armor, hiding exquisite sensibility in that easily wounded and battle-scarred heart of his?

That gave me pause, and I grudgingly conceded that perhaps there was something of William in her after all – something other than the babe in her womb, put there by the man I still loved and wanted.

I recalled the girl she had been, and compared her to the woman who sat before me. _Confident_, as well as formidable. I imagined that was his doing as well, his love the strength and support against which she had matured and flourished.

He had not shaped her opinions, or forged her beliefs, but gifted her the freedom to have them. This woman would never be easily swayed, or prone to extremity or excess. That, too, was William's legacy.

How easily that spiteful, high-strung girl might have turned into a bitter controlling woman! Such an outcome would have been amplified by the power of her station, and could even be considered inevitable. But her confidence – _his_ confidence, imparted to her - permitted her to wear the crown easily, without resorting to heavy-handed authority.

The woman who brought us carried the tray in, her wide skirts swinging violently with every movement. It interrupted my careful study of the queen; she poured pale pink wine for me, and a scant inch of the same for herself. She reverted easily to drawing room hostess, asking me if I followed Mr. Dickens' serial _Dombey and Son_, telling me that she found last year's Cricket on the Hearth both droll and touching.

I knew without asking that she did not follow my works, and assumed that the reason was plain. She disabused me of that notion quite handily, confessing that she had tried several times to immerse herself in my _Child of the Islands_ without success.

"I do not have the turn of mind, to appreciate epic poetry. Lord Byron's work is equally opaque. But," she added, rather generously, "I understand that it was very well received. Prince William will undoubtedly read it with interest one day."

High-handed? Cutting? I would have liked to think so, but in truth I believe she spoke the truth, simply and without regard for the effect.

I was dismissed then. She thanked me for coming, and thanked me in advance for the _general_ and plainly written legislative proposal I would draft. I looked down at the top of that sleek dark head as glossy as the pelt of a seal, at that neat small shape which conformed itself to his body, imagined the narrow hips which rocked him at night. The pain was so intense that I nearly gasped, when I thought of all I had lost. A gamble from the beginning, when I held all the cards. He should have been mine, and was for a time but in the end I had been no more than a placeholder while he waited for _her_. Ironic in hindsight, when what began with ambition and greed, George's and mine in unison, ended so wrongly for us and well for him.

Without meaning to, I curtsied. Obeisance was not required, and nothing I intended to do, but at that moment it felt…inevitable.


	16. Chapter 16

_Peel Park, Salford, Greater Manchester 1846_

What started out as great good fun soon devolved into an exhaustive whirl of unending _work, _made tolerable – more than tolerable, if he were entirely honest with himself – by the moments of human connection. The crowds numbered in the thousands at each event. Men, women and children, old and young, assembled before dawn in the cold to see a member of the Royal family.

Melbourne had anticipated with more than a little relish the prospect of a trip in purely masculine company. If _duty_ required his absence, then by God, what harm in enjoying himself? His traveling party consisted of both his chosen companions and those whose business it was to ensure he produced a creditable _performance_ on behalf of the Crown.

The precise nature of that performance made Melbourne wince when he thought of it. All well and good for the Queen to smile and wave and utter whatever bland inanities were handed her, to cut ribbons and unveil plaques. She was a very _decorative_ appearance and undertook more such public appearances in a year than her three nearest predecessors had over the entirety of their reigns.

One of the first lessons Melbourne had gently imparted was _to be believed, you must be seen_. A constitutional monarchy was essentially an oxymoron, a fragile construct that could exist only by mutual agreement its usefulness. Victoria had a firm inner sense of her _moral_ purpose, and needed only the gentlest guidance to hone a political instinct which informed her understanding of her _public_ role. She smiled and waved and offered herself directly to the people. They in turn adored her and continually clamored for more.

_Not quite sure what they'll make of me in her place_, Melbourne had muttered several times while they worked on his speech. He had long dreaded the inevitable occasions of his few parliamentary speeches, infinitely more comfortable discussing at length the permutations of some obscure philosophical treatise in his club than standing up in the House.

"They'll do as they always do when they see you, Uncle – cheer and throw their caps in the air. Remember, the point isn't what you say – at most a few in the front rows will make out one word in ten – but who and what you _are_."

The Royal train, commissioned in '42, was a necessary luxury, permitting safe and comfortable travel. Dowager Queen Adelaide was the first member of the extended Royal family to receive a car crafted specifically for her, with Victoria's carriages not far behind. Melbourne and the Queen each had their own lounges and sleeping accommodations and a shared private dining room. Other cars were outfitted for the children, servants and noble members of the Household.

Melbourne and his party settled in his carriage. Furnished in the style of one of the better gentleman's clubs, it boasted twin leather Chesterfield sofas long enough to accommodate even Billy Cameron's prone form, a writing desk and banquette where light meals could be served. Will and Charlie Cowper accompanied him, as did George Wettin. It was George who added key portions of the speech Melbourne would give, touching on education in Manchester and trade and industry in Liverpool. Peel, Hobhouse and two anonymous and interchangeable undersecretaries from the Home Office rounded out the party.

Lines crossed and recrossed, phrases written, altered and polished, when the work was done the mood became quite jolly. As the train made its way toward Manchester, reaching an astounding 40 miles per hour on some stretches, Melbourne sprawled on the well-upholstered banquette and savored the rare freedom of a strictly male excursion.

♛

Earl of Ellesmere was a new title created by Victoria for Lord Francis Egerton as a parting gift to Sir Robert Peel, whose staunch ally he was. Egerton had lobbied for a Royal visit, to mark his ascendancy. Nominally the purpose of Melbourne's visit on the Queen's behalf was to celebrate the remarkable success of Manchester's Sunday school system. The Sunday school movement was cross-denominational and existed to educate the working classes, children and adults alike, and Greater Manchester was rightfully proud of its school systems.

There was a time, long since passed, when Melbourne would have dismissed the subject as dreary, even distasteful, and not worth pursuing. _Let the poor alone_, he'd once quipped, intended as little more than a flippant aside. But that was then and this is now, he told himself each time that old irreverence reared its head. He had not sought the excruciatingly public role he now occupied, but he had accepted it nonetheless, and if guarding his tongue even in private was an onerous constraint, it was a small sacrifice for all he'd gained in return.

They were taken from the train to Worsley Hall, where Ellesmore waited to welcome them. He had changed little from Melbourne's days in government, a colorless fellow who spoke in a weak monotone.

"Your Grace," Ellesmore stated primly, his manner so flat that Melbourne was unsure whether to respond in kind. He settled for _Your Lordship_ as he returned the man's bow.

Harriet, Countess Ellesmore, was an easy and competent hostess, with the Greville ease of manner. Melbourne bent over her hand, murmured a mild compliment and won a twinkling smile. George, with architectural fervor, had prepared him well. Worsely had been entirely rebuilt in the past decade, in faux Elizabethan style replete with_ fenestration_ and _vaulting_ and intricate stonework. Melbourne thought only that the place looked damned uncomfortable, its style more suited to a church than country home.

"…for the express purpose of encouraging Royal visits…" that tidbit had been offered up by his mother-in-law, courtesy of one of her bridge partners.

Egerton, the new Earl, came from an ancient, well-connected family with roots deep in the British nobility. He was, for all that, a nervous, striving sort of man, Melbourne thought, peevish at the idea he was not taken seriously. _But worthy, for all that, and loyal to a fault, blithely reversing his previous views on Free Trade to support Sir Robert's about-face._ Melbourne had considered it a dishonest act, when Peel turned his back on his own party for the sake of some abstract ideal. _Nobody ever did anything very foolish except from some strong principle_, he had said to Victoria, knowing she would not take his words too seriously. He had said it in the only safe place to indulge his old penchant for outrageous remarks, whispered in the dark while they lay in each other's arms.

Melbourne would have happily spent the remaining hours before dinner conversing with Lady Ellesmore and her daughters in the snug drawing room just visible beyond a cavernous Great Hall, but the Earl had other plans. Despite lowering skies which promised snow, he would take the Duke of Melbourne around Worsley Estate.

While they partook of refreshments below, Melbourne's valet had been busy above. Baines changed him quickly, replacing the black broadcloth he had traveled in with what appeared to be shooting attire.

"You'll be glad of it, m'lord," the man said cryptically, crouching to pull on glossy knee-high riding boots.

Melbourne was soon as glad of the boots as he was of a densely-woven wool coat and the cashmere scarf tied in place of a cravat.

"The population is nearly 6,000," Ellesmore said as they climbed into rough open farm wagons which would drive them around the estate. Their first destination was some distance away, reached by following a rutted track across winter-brown stubble.

At least an hour remained before the sun would set, but warm yellow light already spilled from the windows of a row of neat cottages. Melbourne looked down the long block of tidy houses, counting, and hoped against hope he would not be expected to venture into each one.

They were expected, of course; Ellesmere was not the man to leave anything to chance. A young woman opened her door wide and dipped into a low curtsy. She held a fat infant against her shoulder and a toddler on the opposite hip. Instinctively Melbourne reached out a hand to steady the girl as she struggled to rise with her burden.

"Four rooms and a pantry, back-yard and garden," Ellesmore enumerated while Melbourne looked around with what he hoped was an expression of benign interest. The housewife shyly responded to her landlord's questions. Rent was a very modest £3 per year, manageable on a miner's salary.

If Egerton's droning monotone was grating, Melbourne began to be genuinely impressed by the fruits of his labor. If the man's recitation would have been boasting in any other context, Melbourne remembered why he was there and attended closely.

They saw a reading room "much frequented by my laborers, as an agreeable resort after their day's work," he explained, "containing the best periodicals of the day, and a considerable circulating library." Five clergymen met Worsley's spiritual needs, and a seven-day school was staffed by trained educators and furnished with the best books and apparatus.

"Sixty acres has been set apart as a recreation ground." Past the last dwelling, they came to a large open field. The wind blew unimpeded from the direction of the canal, driving sleet with it. Melbourne turned up the collar of his coat and did his best to conceal a shiver as they strode across the green.

"… Cricket, quoits, and other athletic games are encouraged; and the private band occasionally attends there on pay-days…"

♛

"Three bloody hours," Will grumbled, throwing himself on Melbourne's bed.

"Did any of it make an impression on you? I admit I was both impressed and envious by all Ellesmere has done in his model village."

"'What may be done by a proprietor, what should be done by every proprietor, is illustrated in the case of Lord Francis Egerton and the Worsley colliers'. Yes, yes, I memorized it chapter and verse."

Melbourne met his nephew's eyes and couldn't help grinning in return. He would have shared the younger man's exasperated mirth once upon a time. _But that was then and this is now_.

"Go dress for dinner," he said only, cuffing Emily's younger son as if he was a wayward adolescent and not a man of five-and-thirty. "And remember your manners at table. You are here as my equerry, and by extension you represent the Crown."

A scant hour later, freshly washed and shaved, Melbourne led Lady Ellesmere in to dinner. Two dozen guests followed them, local gentry invited to make up the numbers. The Earl and Countess clearly wanted to put on a show, in a manor house so new it still smelled of paint and plaster.

If Melbourne had been required to summarize Worsley New Hall in one word, on that wet December night he would have chosen _cold_. The cavernous chamber was as cold as the rest of the house, with neither stove nor hearth in evidence. Candles burned in abundance, and he was momentarily tempted to warm his icy hands over their flame.

Spit-roasted swan, grouse pies, lobster medallions and rosettes of partridge breast were only some of the courses on offer. His hostess was surprisingly good company, improving his earlier foul mood with just the sort of light-hearted, flirtatious banter he most enjoyed. She ensured that his plate was changed frequently, so he ate some of everything, knowing as he did that his system would surely revolt later.

The meal lasted until eleven, and then they adjourned to the drawing room for musical entertainment. Melbourne was no fan of opera, and would have found the screeching intolerable in a sparsely furnished chamber, except it relieved him of the need to converse. He knew he had fallen asleep in his chair, by the amused look his hostess showed him.

At twenty minutes before two o'clock Melbourne dropped into bed, exhausted. His valet had waited for him, as was to be expected, and had applied a warming pan to the bed. As he waited for sleep to overtake him, to divert himself from myriad aches and pains and the beginning of a scratchy throat, Melbourne amused himself in imagining how he would describe this first day of Crown representation. Those reflections only served to remind him of Victoria's own punctilious nightly journaling. With a groan, he got himself up and trudged to the writing desk.

♛

Whether in spite of the weather or because of it, Peel Park in Salford had been full to overflowing. Several inches of new snow quickly turned to mud under thousands of feet.

A bandstand in the center bore the remnants of optimistic decoration, waterlogged and wind-ravaged bunting. Ellesmere spoke first, then Sir Robert Peel. Melbourne was introduced and came forward with a swagger he could not feel, even when a mounting roar of full-throated whoops and cheers reminded him the throng expected no more than a spectacle they could boast of later. He smiled easily and swept a low bow to the spectators, buying a few more precious moments to collect himself.

Melbourne had long since resigned himself to his deep-seated dread of public speaking. It was an ordeal made worse by a tendency to stammer under pressure. In the House on those rare occasions he was compelled to speak in defense of some measure which should need no exhortation, Melbourne's thoughts outpaced his verbal dexterity. The words would come out garbled, tumbling over one another, until it seemed as though his own throat would throttle him into submission. All he could do was state the facts plainly, abandoning the flights of rhetoric employed by a Pitt or Peel.

Already Liam evidenced the same unfortunate tendency, and Melbourne blamed himself. However such traits were passed on from a father to his son, whether by some as-yet-unknown physical mechanism or only a learned behavior, the child acquitted himself poorly beyond the safe confines of home and family. _For his sake, then - _

Melbourne read from the printed page, not daring to look up for the first minutes. When he paused to take a breath – mentally thanking whomever had spelled out the prompt- he recognized in that mass of humanity a sort of collective good will directed at him. His colleagues in the House were predisposed to pass judgment, not only on the bill but on the individual attributes of each man who took the floor. Those peers and politicians knew all there was to know about William Lamb, and many found him wanting as a minister and man. These ordinary people cared nothing for fancy oratory – as his nephew had said, few beyond the front rows would even hear his words – and plain speaking would suffice. He was _here _standing in their wet muddy park on damp December day, and that was enough to lend a holiday air to the proceedings.

Melbourne continued in a more relaxed fashion, even interjected his own brand of humor with a few extemporaneous remarks. Her Majesty the Queen, he told them to much cheering and _God Bless_es, wanted to recognize the singular achievements of their home-grown educational scheme.

_5,000 of your children learn to read, write and cypher every year, and you, their parents, make that possible by supporting the Sunday Schools and demonstrating by your own attendance the value you place on education._ This, to another round of self-congratulatory cheers. When a few young men, bolder than the rest, called out over the din, Melbourne lazily returned their banter in kind, earning him applause from the crowd.

He spoke for the Queen, telling them theirs was a model for the nation to emulate, not only for the many virtues of education but for the ecumenical cooperation which made it all work. He told them about the formation of a Royal Committee of Council on Education which would distribute grants for the training of future teachers, and named the amount which he would present by draught to the Superintendent of the Greater Manchester School System. And he unveiled the plaque which would be affixed to a new secondary academy, the first of its kind, providing advanced education to gifted students beyond the age where they would normally be expected to join the workforce.

When it came, the denouement was handled so deftly that no one seemed to notice. There would be no _Prince Albert _Academy, just as a day later in Liverpool there would be no magnificent new waterfront warehouse christened the _Royal_ _Albert Warehouse Dock_. Instead, Liverpool would be honored by the first royal State visit in its history. With much pomp and fanfare, His Grace the Duke of Melbourne would ceremonially cut the ribbon and declare the Royal William Dock open to trade.

It was a neat solution to the thorny problem that Victoria had wrestled into submission. Ellesmere's original invitation had referenced an intention to call the newest school building after the late Prince Albert. By suggesting they honor one of the early founders of their school system, while retaining Crown patronage, the Phillips-Melbourne Academy appealed to civic pride while reminding the population that it was Lord Melbourne who successfully pushed through the Reform Laws that gave them a long-overdue voice in government. And if _William_ was the name of past and future Kings, it was also the only name Victoria would allow history to link with her own.

♛

_"'His reception was most enthusiastic; balconies were erected along the line of procession, and these and the windows of houses were filled with gay and animated parties. There was a most brilliant display of flags, banners & etc. All business is suspended. There are 200,000 strangers in town, and all the inhabitants are in the streets. All is gaiety and splendour." _

_The Duke was taken on a processional tour through the city, including a visit to the town hall where the royal address was made, before departing aboard the ferry across to the Cheshire side of the Mersey and then northwards towards the William Dock. Again this stage of the procession route was laden with onlookers. _

_From the Cheshire side of the river the Fairy crossed to the Liverpool side, and returned along the line of docks amidst the cheers of assembled thousands and the roar of artillery. The sight was really magnificent, all the ships in the docks were decked out in gayest colours and the river was crowded with boats filled with people. At half-past two the fairy entered the dock, where were assembled two thousand ladies and gentlemen, the elite of the town; they cheered enthusiastically, which his Grace returned, and in order to gratify the crowd sailed round the dock again.'"_

Victoria looked up from the newspaper, flushed with pride and pleasure. The _Pictorial Times_ had sent a reporter to accompany him throughout his visit, and this was the result. Every column inch contained glowing reports of his time in Liverpool, the first such visit by a member of the Royal family. The coverage was excruciatingly detailed and exacting, down to the dishes served at the Banquet Hall, and Victoria pored over every word.

Each morning she had first read the dispatches, then Billy's terse notes, saving William's letters for last. He wrote each night before retiring, so that she would know she was on his mind as he slept. As dear as they were, those single sheets covered by his angular scrawling hand, they provided little in the way of _color_. His feet hurt, his back ached, dinner was twelve courses, and he missed her to warm his bed. Billy took them all to a private club, which featured a live swan stage. _More about that when I am with you again_, he promised.

The _Times_ was invaluable as a source, permitting the reader to experience every aspect of this first State visit to Liverpool. Perusing each line, Victoria hoped to glean some indication that William had found what she'd sent him in search of. He didn't know, of course; the darling man had unhesitatingly accepted the duty she laid at his feet, pleading the exigencies of her delicate condition. But she wanted more than anything for the people to give him the only gift she could not: the transcendent sense of destiny and duty fulfilled and a mutual bond acknowledged. To be touched, albeit briefly, by the very tangible essence of what monarchy meant to the people.

Because it was his now too, and for all eternity, so long as the recorded history of the United Kingdom remained, it would be theirs together. _Victoria and William._


	17. Chapter 17

_"'… cheered enthusiastically, which his Grace returned, and in order to gratify the crowd sailed round the dock again.'"_

"Does it say how badly my feet hurt on that last walkaround? It felt as though I was hobbling along on broken glass."

He was slouched in his customary posture, long legs propped on an ottoman, arm extended along the back of the sofa. They sat in the Crimson Drawing Room at Windsor, Victoria, the Duchesses of Kent and Sutherland, Baroness Lehzen and the chief governess. The high-ceilinged space, already festive with its ample gilt work, elaborate ceiling mural and gold-fringed scarlet draperies, was decorated for Christmas. Evergreen garlands scented the air, and the furniture had already been rearranged to accommodate the several great Scottish fir _Christbaum_ trees which would soon be trundled in by an army of groundsmen.

Victoria was buoyant with that distinctive lightness of being she only felt in her husband's presence. Melbourne had arrived unexpectedly, well after dark and long after she had resigned herself to another several nights' absence. A sudden storm had blown down from the north, closing the rail line just past Stafford. The Duke and his party were confined to the train in a location inaccessible by road. Keeping the boilers going overnight had consumed more fuel than they kept aboard, so once the tracks were cleared by an all-hands effort the engineer detoured into Birmingham to resupply.

♛

Victoria and her immediate Household had planned the weekend at Windsor, leaving Buckingham in the hands of Emily Temple. She had grand plans for the Diplomatic Reception, and had taken up residence, employing a battalion of her own servants to augment the labors of the nine-hundred-odd already at work in the Palace. Victoria's own mother had gently chided her, when Victoria fretted over the prospect of William returning to an empty palace.

"Empty?" the Duchess had repeated, her tone imbuing that single word with such humor that Victoria could not help laughing at herself.

"You know what I mean, Mama. I should be here to greet him."

They'd had no firm word since Birmingham, when Billy sent a brief message by way of the Mail Coach, and when Saturday evening's freezing rain added a scrim of ice to the already snow-covered roads, Victoria resigned herself to spending the weekend alone. She kept _that_ reflection to herself, predicting how her mother would insist on a literal interpretation if she dared apply _alone_ to a household which, even at minimal staffing, numbered a dozen companions and thrice that many personal attendants attached to the private apartment alone.

The work followed wherever she went, and those red boxes delivered twice a day come rain or shine, sleet or snow, were Victoria's saving grace. She could not tolerate idleness under the best of circumstances, and William's absence only redoubled her need of distraction, so she diligently read every dispatch and made neat notes in the margins which her secretary would incorporate into her response.

After dinner, Victoria and her ladies listened to Madame Hocédé very entertainingly read from Monsieur Molière's _L'École des Femmes_ while sleet pelted against the windows. A modern stove provided warmth, but she had called for a woodfire in the hearth nonetheless. It would be quite cozy, she thought, if only William were here. That wish was quickly, superstitiously followed by another, that he would remain somewhere safe and comfortable, until such time as he could safety travel. _It's the not knowing_, she'd told herself, _which troubles me. This is England, in 1846, and not the middle ages._

And just like that, he was there, crossing the room with his familiar long-legged stride, bowing from the neck towards her lady companions and bending over her hand.

♛

A footman had earlier relieved him of his coat and hat, but Melbourne had his walking stick in his left hand. Victoria, with the keen concerned eyes of a wife, had marked a tendency to lean more heavily in that direction. She said nothing, only smiled. _That_ she could not help if she'd tried – her entire face, of its own volition, softened as she looked at him.

Once, Victoria thought, she would have behaved indecorously, clutching his arm and demanding all his attention. Once, she hoarded every second and minute, jealous as a miser. How much more comfortable it is now, she realized, to _treasure_ without hoarding, to know that he is mine and nothing can come between us. To know that he was hers to have and to hold, and that they could retire together and close the door behind them.

At present, she was content to listen with the others, to laugh and exclaim and remark at intervals, as he regaled them with stories of his travels, finding humor in every situation as only he could. Melbourne grew expansive, and she understood he came fully alive in such a setting. He was the most charming of men, and enjoyed the society of ladies, and she could not, would not, deprive him of the very facets of his character which had won her own heart.

While she listened, their linked hands concealed by a fold of her skirt, Victoria watched the play of emotions on his handsome, expressive features. What she saw reassured her. He _had_ found satisfaction in the duty she set before him, and had flourished in such a public role. He _had_ overcome that innate resistance to scrutiny, _had_ discovered that assuming the mantle she was eager to share did not mean sacrificing his principles or giving in to unbecoming pretension. He _was_ married to the sovereign, and was accepted by the people; he _was_ held in fond regard by the vast majority of the population. And _now he knows_, she told herself, greatly pleased.

They retired shortly after eleven, not so early as to convey an eagerness to be rid of the others, nor so late as to make it seem as though they were reluctant to be alone. They each kissed her mother and bade the others good night, and left together, fingers interlaced. If the Windsor pages were not so accustomed as their London counterparts to such an open display of conjugal affection, it was only revealed by a slight widening of the eyes after the Royal couple had passed.

Victoria was only momentarily startled by the unfamiliar gentleman's gentleman who rose when they entered Melbourne's dressing room. Baines was a long-familiar face, but this fellow's presence meant she could not linger. Regretfully, she squeezed Melbourne's hand and went through to her own chamber.

Her own lady's maid unbound her hair and then offered her a choice of gowns. One of the diaphanous chiffons would send a signal to which my poor darling might be too weary to respond, she knew. On the other hand, a high-necked flannel, no matter how cozy, would signal a firm _no_, which was not at all what she wanted. Victoria's body, after that early aversion to intimacy, now tormented her with nearly-constant heat. She was in her sixth month, the prominence of her abdomen requiring _accommodation_, and yet the wanting was ever-present. Even not knowing whether they _would_ or would not a delicious sense of uncertainty.

Victoria was under the covers when Melbourne came through. She had chosen a white muslin gown with long sleeves ending in a delicate lace frill at the wrists. Its wide, lace-trimmed neckline slipped becomingly off her shoulders but only hinted at newly-enlarged breasts.

She turned back the quilt while he removed his slippers, and moved over to her own side of the bed. He heaved a great, gusty sigh when his head hit the pillow.

"This is good, so very good," he said in a voice more raspy from recent overuse. "Too many strange beds, and too many rich meals. Too many people hacking and coughing. Poor Baines took sick our first night after Ardesley. I borrowed this young man from Normanby. He owns stock in the new –" Melbourne interrupted himself with a wide yawn, then shook his head vigorously to throw off a fatigue which tugged at his lids.

Victoria saw and understood, and pushed herself up to lean across him and extinguish the light. She tenderly stroked his brow, caressing his eyelids with a feather-light touch.

"Poor darling, you are exhausted," she whispered. "You can tell me more about it tomorrow. Only…did you…did you mind it all terribly? Or – or, did you _understand_ what it is we do?"

She could express it no more clearly than that, what she meant, and trusted him to grasp her meaning. Melbourne her mentor had said and done everything which was proper, and had instilled in her the exact nature of her work. It had been Melbourne who was the architect of a modern constitutional monarchy. And yet, he had been frank about his own essential cynicism, and the Whig tendency to view the monarchy as an ornamental abstraction. From the first touch of the Holy Oils, Victoria had been imbued with a knowledge of something greater than herself. If parliamentary government was the brains of the nation, then the Crown was its heart and soul.

Melbourne was quiet for so long that Victoria decided he had fallen asleep. When he finally spoke, that rough-soft voice in the dark almost startled her.

"You won't think I'm very silly, if I say yes to your question? I would have been the first to tell you – or your Uncle William – that it's necessary to go and put on a good show. And I would have – had, as you know – accepted the fact that the people didn't despise me, as I'd once feared, for marrying a girl young enough to be my daughter. But…" and his voice drifted off again, before continuing.

"They looked at me and saw the Crown, saw _you_ and a thousand unbroken years of monarchy. Ministers come and go, politicians campaign and change with the times. The good ones _lead_, and the adequate _follow_, but they are all servants of the constituencies which send them and can recall them in an instant. The Crown is stability, link between past and future and ballast to cling to in the present. To those rough dockworkers, to the fishwives and sweeps and miners and clerks, my visit, the simple _fact_ of my presence in their midst, stirred in them a pride that I would not have credited. It _mattered_ that I listened to the prize pupils recite, or when some lout called out his jibe from the back row and I responded, when I shook their hands and accepted their small tributes. I – I've quite frankly never felt so humbled and exalted simultaneously. It's a synergy, a fuel that flows in both directions. So – yes, I understand, in a way I did not before."

He laughed, and it was an endearing sound, almost a giggle, coming from such an entirely _manly_ man. Victoria felt love from her scalp to her toes, a melting liquid fire that warmed her from within. She pressed herself against him as closely as she could, to share that warmth.

"My darling, my dearest, my quite splendid William Lamb!" Victoria whispered fervently while she sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

Melbourne turned on his side, facing her, and then turned her own body away from his. His much-longer form fitted itself to her curves and hollows, and he filled her completely. They did not move, did not seek completion, but slept fully connected. If they slipped apart during the night, they were joined together again when she opened her eyes in the morning.


	18. Chapter 18

_"Stay in bed. Tell them to go away." _Or words to that effect – his face pressed into the pillow, Melbourne could not be sure exactly what he said. His intention, however, was plain.

_"It's Sunday, darling. If I don't get up now I'll be rushed later."_ Her voice was gentle, caressing, but the words enunciated clearly. He knew it was a losing battle. Not because she would not, but because she _could_ not. Victoria was constitutionally unable to sleep beyond the hour her infernal internal alarm sounded.

_"I know it's Sunday, my dear girl. A day of rest…" _One last futile plea; Melbourne squeezed her more tightly, compressing warm, pliant girl against his chest and loins, but only for a moment. Then he released her with a groan and smacked his palm against her backside for good measure.

Victoria yelped so loudly that he realized it must have stung, and stroked her silky skin to soothe it, his hand following the voluptuous line from waist over hip to the top of her thigh.

"Go then. Abandon me if you will." He rolled onto his back, bunching up the pillow to support his head. She giggled and leaned over to kiss him, her breast swaying just out of reach of his searching mouth.

"Sleep again, darling. I know you're worn out, from your week on the road. I'll have the newspapers sent up, and coffee when you're ready."

Melbourne watched her walk away and then turned on his side, luxuriating in the feel of fine Egyptian cotton against his bare legs.

"We leave at 3?" The lilt at the end made it a question, or perhaps an apology. He knew the movement of the Court, even a group as small as that which accompanied her to Windsor, required advance planning. Naturally, they would not want to travel after dark and the days were short in mid-December.

"Yes, my love. I promise I'll be up and presentable long before that." The bed was rapidly cooling, without her. He tugged the heavy quilt up over his shoulders in hope of a few more hours' sleep. Then, remembering, he fixed her with a one-eyed gaze. "Wait – I should have asked – how is the little one? How are _you_? You seemed in fine fettle, and I admit all my thoughts were focused on you."

Victoria showed him what he thought of as her _Madonna_ smile, beatific and inward-looking.

"Your child is well, strong and healthy. His kicks are becoming more pronounced as he grows." She smoothed her night dress over the mound and looked at it fondly. "And I've never felt better."

Standing in the doorway, one foot already over the threshold, Victoria's expression became vaguely peeved.

"Where _is_ Skerrett?" she asked crossly, expecting no response.

"'He'"? Melbourne repeated, smiling in return. "You are certain it's a boy?"

"No, of course not; how can I be? But yes, I have a sense of sorts. If I'm wrong and we have a daughter instead you must promise never to tell her that."

"I will, if you promise to forget that nonsense I blathered last night, when I was half-asleep and making little sense."

Victoria's brows came together, and he saw her trying to decipher his meaning.

"That pompous drivel about…well, never mind. If you don't remember, I'm grateful and if you do, then I'm doubly so, for sparing my blushes."

"That you found some sense of purpose and satisfaction in representing the Crown on a State visit? William, I was terribly pleased that you felt it, and shared it with me."

"Pompous drivel," Melbourne repeated, thoroughly embarrassed, remembering. "I was near witless with exhaustion – let Billy tell you about the final leg of our journey – and only meant…well, I suppose, that when they looked at me and saw the Crown…it was a novel experience and the first time I ever felt it was enough to simply _be._ That I was _enough_, without anything else expected of me. Now leave me in peace, woman, before I paddle you soundly."

Melbourne would have drifted off, but he wanted to capture the errant, inchoate thoughts running through his mind. He rummaged through a bedside table for writing implements and found a dainty jewel-encrusted pencil and Victoria's crested personal stationary. He began to write.

_Always, I have been in the shadow of men capable of greatness. Fox, Canning, Wellington – although his oratory skills exceed even mine in their bumbling, fumbling lack of eloquence – and the rest. From childhood I was groomed for the Olympian heights to which Mother aspired on my behalf. I had all the advantages of birth and fortune, and the opportunities our family connexions offered. Doors were open to me which would remain stubbornly closed to others. And yet…and yet…the more they all believed in me – Mother, Caro, Em – and pushed me to succeed, the less able I felt. Left to my own devices, I would have happily pursued the life of an intellectual dilletante, célèbre in the salons and drawing rooms, unknown beyond my chosen milieu._

_Alas, they all wanted _more_, expected excellence in return for the adulation all those attentive females in my life heaped on my poor undeserving shoulders. I was pushed headlong into politics at their behest, and in the course of fulfilling ambitions which were in no way my own, found the workaday business of government oddly satisfying. _

_Dublin was the first place in which I found myself suited for the role I'd been forced to play. Analyzing all sides of some complex question, isolating those nuggets of validity in each – there has never been a matter worthy of attention in which truth lays entirely on one side or another – and discovering the means by which resolution can be reached – I discovered in myself a knack for such business. The other duties of office came quite naturally, forging compromise by bringing men together in congenial surroundings, puncturing the balloon of pomposity some wear like armor. And yet…and yet…it was never _enough_. A compromise solution makes no one happy, even when accepted by all. Many times I was chastised more severely by my supposed allies, good party Whigs, than my nominal adversaries in the Tory party, always for the same besetting sin my own wife hurled at my head: my lack of passion, passion that other men - Palmerston heads that list - have in abundance, and a firm unwavering belief in the rightness of their opinions. Ideological laziness, if you will, or a dearth of ambition, the conclusion was the same in the end: I was never enough. Never firm enough, never lenient enough; neither progressive nor conservative enough. Never pious enough or free-thinking enough. Never _enough.

_My precious darling girl, my beloved wife. Anointed of God, Defender of the Faith, Her Majesty the Queen. From the moment I knelt before her and she bade me rise, she – with the Crown on her head, sceptre in hand, ruler of all she surveys – looked at me and saw who I was, and made me feel as though, finally and without question, I was _enough.

_Through Her and with her and by Her name, I looked out at those tens of thousands who had come to see me. In their eyes too, it was enough to be me, William Lamb, with no accomplishments to measure and achievements to compare. I was not judged and found wanting by the standards of some other, not expected to perform impossible feats. By standing and speaking plainly, by looking and listening and simply being _present_, to those people in that moment I was _enough.

Whether or not his thoughts would ever be included in a later chapter of those never-ending memoirs, Melbourne most emphatically did not want them scrutinized now. He barely had time to slam his palm down over the sheet before an attempt was made to snatch it out of his hand.

Henry Temple, Viscount Palmerston, Foreign Secretary and husband to Melbourne's only sister, stood at the foot of the bed. He unceremoniously threw back the bedcovers and roistered Melbourne until he had him on his feet.

Melbourne pulled on his dressing gown and tied the belt around his waist. He pushed his feet into slippers and pushed his brother-in-law away. _Where the devil is Baines_? he wondered savagely, and then remembered his man's illness. Taken to his bed once in fourteen years – I suppose I must allow him that, Melbourne conceded.

He folded the flimsy sheets and shoved them into his pocket, ushering Palmerston out of the bedroom, guiding him to the small private sitting room beyond his own unused bedchamber.

Palmerston called for coffee and beer, startling the hall page with his booming voice.. Melbourne considered hastily, knowing that beer would make him bilious, and added his own request, for the imperial porter which bore his name, and whatever food the kitchen could assemble at short notice. He rubbed his grizzled chin and finger-combed his unruly curls into submission.

"Rather uncouth, barging into the Queen's bedchamber," Melbourne said finally. "What would you have done if you had not found me alone?"

"Why, genuflect to the Queen and ogle the woman," Palmerston replied with a toothsome grin.

"I was at loose ends in the city, and my own wife has no time for me. So I rode out here – my carriage is mud-spattered to the windows, for my pains – to see for myself the conquering hero."

His tone was jovial enough but Melbourne watched to see which way the wind was blowing.

"'Hero', I'm not, nor did I do much in the way of conquering. If I represented the Queen adequately, I'm content. Need I remind you that I hold no office? I've been put out to pasture, and can never return to any role in government whilst you have your Foreign Office back and not likely to encounter much resistance this time around."

They had been friends since boyhood, and rubbed shoulders in society as young men. More than acquaintances, somewhat less than intimates, Emily had long been the link between them. His own mother, the late Lady M, had pleaded with Em on her deathbed to remain true, seeing potential in their eventual union. _His star is still rising,_ Melbourne had heard his shrewd mother say.

Their personal styles were diametrically opposed – Palmerston was loudly outspoken and ran roughshod over anyone who opposed him, and although the ladies liked him well enough to bestow the nickname _Cupid_, he lacked the true Whig elegance of manner behind which Melbourne hid his own more sensitive nature.

He had been a thorn in Melbourne's side, during his six years as First Lord, threatening to resign and take half of Melbourne's cabinet with him. Lord Palmerston pursued his brand of foreign policy with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop, the master of steely-eyed brinksmanship which depended on the other man blinking. But for all that, he was impossible to dislike – at least, Melbourne found him so, drawn despite himself to Palmerston's fiery passion, a trait he himself lacked. And all he did, he did for Britain – even Victoria conceded as much.

"You are the head of the Foreign Office, and as such the host of the Diplomatic Ball. It's you who will lead the Queen onto the floor, and you who will make the presentations."

"And you who'll sit on a throne at her side, receiving all those bows and curtsies. Who'd've thought, eh, Will? But here we are. You might have bested me at every turn, but I'll someday catch up. Don't bet against me."

"I never would. And it's only a chair, and that in deference to that infernal weakness in my leg." Melbourne's retort had been literal, but he understood the figurative meaning as well. "You'll be First Lord sooner rather than later, Henry, if only you can manage to quit antagonizing everyone who might do you good."

Melbourne narrowed his eyes and made a show of examining his brother-in-law's attire. Yesterday's neckcloth, wrinkled and refolded, and a day's growth of golden beard.

"You haven't been home," he stated flatly. "You came directly here."

"Lend me your man to shave me, give me clean linen and all will be well. Don't tell me you've become a prig like so many of this young generation."

Melbourne bit back the first answer which came to mind, that it was Victoria who took an intolerant view of extramarital liaisons. That their own two children had been conceived and born during her unconsummated marriage to another, was beyond the scope of her tendency to moralize. It was a minor blemish in her character that he'd tried gently to correct.

Henry Temple was no saint, but then Emily, the little rogue, had led him a merry chase and Melbourne long suspected that every woman he bedded had been no more than a placeholder for her. They were happy enough now, or so it seemed, which is why he was vaguely surprised.

"Not what you think," Palmerston said then. "Minny implored me to talk sense to Ashley. She wants to come back to court – badly – and it's no bad thing for Tony and Lady Mary to resume their education in the Royal school room with their cousins."

Minny, young Emily, had been a lovely girl with all of her mother's vivacity and her father's – nominally, of course, Palmerston was her _stepfather_, but all who mattered knew the girl's true paternity – headstrong nature. Her husband was the least likely match for a girl from what at least one biddy had called _the most profligate family in England_. Anthony Ashley-Cooper was a socially reforming do-gooder and staunch evangelical. It had turned out to be a surprisingly happy marriage, despite Minny's frustration at her continual confinement and her husband's preference that she remain at their country estate for much of the year.

"Did you succeed? He's ambitious enough not to discount the family connection, surely?"

"The children are ill again – some one or the other of them is always in poor health, which if you ask me is what comes of confining them in that grim damp pile. But yes, they left when I did and will be in London tomorrow if the roads remain clear."

"So they'll be at the Ball?"

"They will. Only, I assume, so he can whisper in Her Majesty's ear. He hasn't given up on further amendment of Fielden's Ten Hours Bill."

"Does he imagine that if adolescents are prohibited from working more than ten hours a day, they'll spend the remainder of their time on improving their minds and forming their character?"

Melbourne quipped, risking the joke with only his brother-in-law to hear. Victoria would take umbrage to such flippancy, even knowing as she did that he didn't mean half of what he said.

"As he did with the sweeps…he'll make the argument that our late Prince shared his concern for the well-being of children forced to earn their bread."

"You might want to whisper a word or two in his ear, that he must find a better means of persuasion than resurrecting Albert. Her Majesty will be more amenable to an appeal to _her_ economic good sense."

Victoria's heart was touched by the plight of the unfortunate, but she understood that she dared not express any opinion one way or the other on bills before Parliament. She was also clear-sighted and had a good sound understanding, and would welcome any argument which made good policy independent of moral doctrine.

The Norton letter was proof of that much; she had gone her own way, and invited the woman to make her case from a different perspective. Whether existing divorce and child custody law was just or unjust, kind or cruel, Victoria isolated key points which emphasized only the detrimental effect on the national interest. She had extrapolated, from Mrs. Norton's personal grievances, a more generalized inequity that did not single out females for special protection. Victoria had posited the risk to good order, of denying access to the courts for half of the population, and the attack on private property rights inherent in a law which allowed any one person to arbitrarily seize and redistribute the earned income of another. Her conservative Lord Chancellor had drafted a summary of her rationale – and sent it to her husband by special messenger.

Melbourne had _that_ missive safely tucked away. He had received it at Ardesley, where the messenger found him, and debated whether to burn it and save Cottenham's scrawny hide.

They ate and drank and talked, reminiscing as men will who have shared half a century of eventful living. When the mantle clock struck two Melbourne pulled the rope, summoning whoever Baines had left in his place.

"I'll shave myself if you'll lend me a razor. Have your man heat water enough for both of us," Palmerston said, stretching and yawning widely.

Before they could retreat to his dressing room, Melbourne heard sounds in the corridor. A page threw open the door and Victoria stepped through.

"Lord M, we leave in an hour," she admonished. Then, belatedly, she noticed he was not alone. "Henry, this is a surprise. When did you arrive?"

Melbourne answered for him, telling her that Lord Palmerston would accompany them to Buckingham Palace. Victoria smiled vaguely, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand.

"Are you well?" Melbourne asked, inclining his head. She looked pale, he thought, and her eyes were troubled.

"A headache only. Skerrett is ill, and she is the only one who can dress my hair without pinning it too tightly. I'll be fine."

They shared one carriage at Victoria's insistence.

"I won't be good company. I think I will rest, and Henry will be someone for you to talk to," she said to explain her generosity. In the end her mother made a fourth, sitting beside Palmerston after tucking a lap robe around Victoria. Melbourne extended his arm across the back of the seat and, in the privacy of their family group, encouraged Victoria to rest her head against him.

"Dress fittings tomorrow," she murmured. "…and your tailor, with the new coats I ordered. Emily will have done everything else, I am sure, but I'll walk through and see her arrangements…." Victoria continued her litany of tasks, until Melbourne chuckled and shushed her.

"Sleep, my little love," he murmured against her bonnet. "It will all come together. If there's one thing my sister does exceedingly well, it's arrange such affairs. Henry never did a better day's work than bringing her into the Foreign Office."

♛

Victoria didn't sleep. What she did, by the halfway point, was to groan unintelligibly and grope for the door handle. While Melbourne held her back, Palmerston pounded on the roof of the carriage and shouted for the coachman to stop. Before they had completely halted she moaned once more and, leaning out the door, violently emptied her stomach. 


	19. Chapter 19

Only his hand was alive in the dark, that single point of contact the focus of his entire being. Palm nearly flat, fingers splayed, he sent warmth and comfort and a father's love through that convex firmness.

_There is a need of the flesh which speaks out, and the body tells by its actions of the kindnesses it has experienced._ Bernard of Clairvaux, on loving God. Melbourne strove to clear his mind of all conscious thought, to be fully present in the moment, but odd bits and pieces surfaced to fill the void. _What if our weakness were the best part of us?_ A classical quandary.

_She_ is my weakness _and_ the best part of me.

Melbourne knew he was not wanted in her sickroom, and understood why. Neither of them wanted the other to bear witness to all the ills of the flesh; as ill as she was, she had demanded he stay away lest somehow the sickness which ravaged her communicate itself to him. _I need…_she had mumbled, refusing to lie still. _I need…you to take care…of all…_ the gesture she made with one out-flung hand contained volumes of meaning. He understood and backed away, left her to the care of others.

But later, when all was quiet, he had defied her edict and returned yet again. The Duchess of Kent held vigil, alone with her daughter and a nursing sister.

"William, you must sleep," she chided, laying one cool hand on his cheek. It was a tender caress, maternal, and made Melbourne think of his own mother, in the ground nearly thirty years. Unhindered, tears welled in his eyes, made wet trails down his cheeks.

The Duchess tsk'd and clucked, her thick accent lending itself well to the homely sounds.

"You must not be so distressed. Drina is strong. We nearly lost her to the typhus but she recovered and has not been sick a day since."

Not, perhaps, the wisest choice in memory to share, Melbourne reflected, but the Duchess was not the wisest of women. In '36, while the Princess languished in bed delirious with fever, she and her comptroller had written his office, falsely claiming that the heiress presumptive wanted him to draft a Regency bill. When that stratagem failed, they had hectored the ailing girl to sign a letter of intent appointing Conroy her primary adviser. If Louise Lehzen hadn't written to Victoria's uncle, begging him to intercede and send a physician…

It was distraction enough that Melbourne was able to collect himself. No one was all good or all bad, and the woman standing before him had loved, if not wisely, then too well. The elder Victoria loved her youngest daughter with a smothering, obsessive intensity, yet was one of those women – and Melbourne knew many – who required the attentions of a man to feel completely alive.

"Sit with her for a while, but then you must rest. Her condition is not yet dire. And you are not…" she finished with a word Melbourne didn't know, and didn't ask her to explain. _Mutterseelenallein? _He wondered.

Victoria slept heavily, drugged with tincture of poppy, a stronger concoction than mere laudanum. Her respiration was deep and labored. She had been put to bed and nurses summoned, along with the physician on duty. Throughout the evening her spasms were near-continuous, long after anything remained to expel. Melbourne knew, because he refused to go farther than the anteroom and only paced back and forth, refusing all sustenance. Each time there was a lull he ventured back in, but got no further than the inner door. Victoria would writhe and gasp and wretch, yet find the breath to shout him away.

Clarke was a fool. He had at first dismissed the constant vomiting with a diagnosis of morning sickness, inescapably a part of her _delicate condition_. Except Victoria had never experienced a single prior episode, not in three past pregnancies or the early days of her fourth. Melbourne himself would have disputed the utter ridiculousness of that notion, if Victoria's mother had not done so first.

"My daughter does not suffer from morning sickness!" she had spat angrily. "And if she did, it would not make its first appearance in her sixth month. You are a _dummkopf_ to think _this_ is what women call morning sickness."

Melbourne silently blessed her when she demanded that the queen's obstetrical specialist be summoned to the palace.

Throughout the evening it continued unabated. He felt pain in his own body each time the sound of her retching reached him, through two sets of stout double doors. She knew the moment he neared her chamber and would shout him away in a shrill voice.

♛

James Clarke and Victoria's obstetrician were joined by John Snow and a fourth Harley Street physician. They examined her, poked, prodded and asked questions she was too ill to answer. Snow in particular impressed Melbourne with his logical approach, sketching out a timeline of Victoria's activities for the past few days. Somewhere she had come in contact with some noxious substance, communicated in food or water or by means of fine droplets of respiration from someone who carried disease. He explained his theory of contagion in simple words, and Melbourne listened closely. Airborne transmission was well understood, but Snow's pet theory centered on contaminated water. Filtration systems provided clean distilled water at both Buckingham Palace and Windsor, installed according to his design, and the man had been an early convert to Dr. Semmelweis's doctrine of hand washing.

He questioned Melbourne closely about his own movements, intrigued by the coincidence of a valet and lady's maid falling ill with many of the same symptoms.

After a warm dry summer, London and the countryside alike faced a serious outbreak of enteric fever. A new, more virulent form of typhus broke out in Ireland first, where it claimed rich and poor alike. As displaced tenants flocked to cities like Liverpool and Manchester in search of work in the factories, they brought their _Irish fever_ with them to join the more familiar, if no less deadly, Asiatic strain of typhus.

Ellesmere's fine new house with its plastered walls and exposed oak beams in the Great Hall, had been noticeably dank and damp. Like many great houses, the drawing rooms and dining rooms had been oppressive from moisture and the bedroom windows frosted on their inner surface, from condensation of water in the air of the room. _Could Baines have contracted a disease there and brought it back with him to Windsor, where Victoria's maid undoubtedly nursed him? _They had long suspected an intimate relationship between the two, and other than some teasing, turned a blind eye.

Melbourne had listened to the opposing viewpoints for as long as his nerves could stand. Asian cholera, Irish typhus, influenza or food poisoning, with shellfish the likely culprit. The problem, as he understood it, was diagnosis was little more than academic exercise. They had no viable treatment to offer for any of the candidates.

_Calomel_ was proposed, with only one dissenting opinion. But it was a purgative in and of itself, and its efficacy was only anecdotal. Nobody could explain to Melbourne's satisfaction how exposing her to even more severe gastrointestinal upset could be a benefit. _Venesection_ was put forward with – to Melbourne's surprise – no real opposition. As reluctant as he was to interject himself in their professional discourse, he insisted that they eliminate that option until nothing else remained. The thought of the scarificator slicing through her soft skin would be a repulsive, opportunistic assault.

A heavy dose of sedative, although not without risks, would at least give her system some reprieve. Melbourne listened to each man nod regretfully, and settle on opium as the least worst option.

_It will depress the child's heart rate,_ her obstetrician warned_, but if she goes on as she is, she will go into premature labor._

As soon as the narcotic took effect, Dr. Snow assembled the necessary equipment – talking in quiet, competent tones as he worked – to begin what he called _intravenous _hydration. Melbourne watched from a distance, his eyes never leaving Victoria's deathly-still form.

"I will insert this tube into the basilic vein," Snow said, his voice steady. "And we will begin introducing a saline solution – here, taste, it is only sterile water and salt, to replace the lost fluids."

"I watched the effects, as ounce after ounce was injected, but no visible change was produced. I thought she began to breathe less laboriously," Melbourne told his sister and brother-in-law later. "Soon her features became less sharply drawn, and her skin began to glow with returning animation."

"Feel the pulse!" Snow beckoned his colleagues and offered her wrist. "At first small and quick, by degrees it becomes more and more distinct."

"In the space of half an hour, when six pints had been injected, she opened her eyes and sought to reassure me, and fancied all she needed was a little sleep."

Those present breathed a collective sigh of relief, and allowed her to drift off again.

"She will be in the arms of Morpheus until morning, and then we will reassess."

The physicians adjourned, leaving in their wake a competent team of nurses. Melbourne was dismissed yet again, this time with kindness and compassion. Baroness Lehzen took charge, advising both Melbourne and the Queen's mother to get some rest while she kept watch.

Emily and her husband were alone when he found them, stumbling from his own exhaustion. They joined in the refrain which urged him to rest, but were unsurprised when he stubbornly refused. Palmerston poured for them and Em patted the sofa cushion beside her. Melbourne sank down and slumped against her shoulder. She patted him tenderly, as their mother might have done, and they spoke in low tones.

"You assume the worst, Will. She's young and strong. Minny's little ones have all been down with this flue going about, and her governess is laid up. The foolish creature broke her leg, just when she was most needed." Emily went on in that vein, chattering away, relieving him of any need to respond. Melbourne only realized that he had fallen asleep, when he jolted awake with a start.

"Go to bed, Em – Henry, take her. I must go back to Victoria." He pushed himself up with a groan, arching his back to relieve the near-cramp that had seized him.

"I should check on Baines, poor devil. If he's been this sick, and with no one to tend him…" Melbourne's voice trailed off, and he swallowed the rest. What could he say? He had given no thought to the man's disability, other than the inconvenience to his own routine.

"Nine hundred servants, William – nine _hundred_. Surely one or two can be dispatched in your place. I'll tell the steward to be sure he has broth and a maid to tend him. I'll also ask about others who might be ill. Surely that information will be of some value in determining what ails Victoria, and if it's contagious. I've also instructed Madame Hocédé that the nursery maids are to keep to themselves, and not interact with the rest of the staff. Baroness Lehzen will have seen to it that they have all they need, to be self-sustaining until we can be certain the children are safe."

Melbourne stared at his sister with wonder. "Em, you are amazing! Henry, I hope you fully appreciate the treasure you have in her."

"Never mind that. Everything else is on schedule – I'm sure when she's able, it's the first thing Victoria will ask. You and that mother of hers will act in her stead."

Melbourne only looked at her blankly, parsing the words for some meaning which escaped him.

"William! You haven't forgotten, surely! Tonight – for it's past midnight – is the biggest event of the social calendar, for all of London. The Diplomatic Reception and Ball."

♛

Three o'clock in the morning, darkest part of the night. Melbourne had drifted in and out of sleep, determined to keep watch. He did not lay fully down, only reclined on the very edge of the mattress. At some point the Duchess had gone, and Baroness Lehzen took up her turn at vigil. The nursing sister might have been relieved as well – he could not be certain; in their plain grey dresses and starched white aprons, hair bound up in tucked out of sight, the women were interchangeably excellent. These same nursing sisters had cared for Lily the previous autumn, and Melbourne was in awe of their relentless devotion.

Victoria swam toward consciousness several times, her bruised purplish eyelids fluttering. Once she fussed at the contraption fastened to her arm, until the nurse gently tied her hand to prevent her from dislodging the needle. Another time she jerked and tried to roll over when a violent stomach spasm took hold. Nothing came up, and she relaxed with a little sigh, then fell back asleep without entirely waking.

Melbourne's hand never left her abdomen, not even when he himself slept. When he opened his eyes as the clock struck three, the first thing he saw was Victoria watching him, her eyes glittering in the ambient light of a single shaded candle. Her expression was frankly miserable, but it was _hers_, and he let out his breath in a rush.

"How are you?" he asked, making no sound, shaping the words with his lips.

"Rather awful," she whispered with a wry grin that made him want to shout with joy. "And you must go now, because I think I'm going to be sick again. But I am _not _going to expire just yet. And neither is he – or she." Victoria guided his hand lower and to the side, so that he could almost count her ribs. _There!_ A subtle rolling movement, far under the surface.

Melbourne grinned broadly and ducked his head to press a kiss on her stomach.

"You kept us company when our baby needed you. But now –" and she groaned, bringing the nurse to her bedside. "-leave us, and sleep, then bathe and eat something. You must…do it all for me. Until I am on my feet."

Melbourne did as he was told, with alacrity. She was on the mend; her mother had been correct, and it was, although severe in its manifestation, not a dire illness. He would respect her wishes, and preserve her dignity; it was enough to know that she was past the worst of it.

He shed his own clothing and dropped into bed, the sheets cold and clammy from disuse. Lying in the dark, it seemed sleep had fled and his mind turned to practical matters. The sovereign presided over the Diplomatic Ball, honoring the representatives of foreign governments; the Foreign Office, by definition, held civil authority, thus playing an integral role. But what Emily had said hit home forcefully. With the Queen ill, he would act in her stead, with his sister and brother-in-law beside him. It would present the very image he had long taken pains to avoid, in the delicate balance of his marriage. Even the most tolerant and supportive of Tory peers, men like Wellington and Peel, would have a hard time swallowing the tableau they presented, and the lampooners would have a field day. _Damn Peel's conscience, repealing the Corn Laws and losing the support of his party,_ Melbourne raged. _Damn Henry for his ambition! And damn this bloody flue! _


	20. Chapter 20

[ ](https://junoxf.tumblr.com/post/189779731176/diplomatic-ball-1846)

[Diplomatic Ball, 1846](https://junoxf.tumblr.com/post/189779731176/diplomatic-ball-1846)

As soon as she had her way, Victoria was forlorn. She could not, most emphatically _would not_, permit William to witness the sheer nastiness of the sickness which ravaged her body. Her head swam and the room swirled, and she heaved again and again, bringing up little more than bile. The ceaseless vomiting left her stomach muscles excruciatingly tender.

One of the nurse attendants held water for her to drink, but the very feel of it on her tongue triggered yet another bout of heaving. Victoria had no sooner allowed her head to drop back on the pillow than a new, different cramping sensation took hold in her lower abdomen. _The child? Oh no, surely not! _Her silent prayer was answered almost at once, in the most unpleasant manner possible. She had no strength to rise and no time to reach for the pan.

"Do not let my husband in again," she muttered through painfully chapped lips. "Post…guards if you must…say it is the Queen's order…"

Had she thought clearly, Victoria would have realized that the silent sister in grey serge would not dare to relay any such command. The Religious Sisters of Mercy were a Roman Catholic order founded little more than a decade earlier in Dublin by a woman of considerable means named Catherine Elizabeth McAuley. Melbourne had first heard of them during his time in Ireland, and when, as a small but not insignificant part of the Roman Catholic Relief Act and subsequent emancipation, restrictions relaxed, they were permitted to establish themselves in England proper. The Duke of Norfolk, the most prominent British Catholic, endowed a skilled nursing hospital at Bermondsey, London staffed exclusively by the religious sisters.

Between bouts of sickness Victoria shivered under a triple layer of blankets. She hugged her knees as close to her chest as she could manage, keeping one hand on her abdomen to soothe her unborn child. She imagined it was William's hand, big and warm and steady; she mewled in her sleep, wanting him, needing to feel his solid strength.

♛

Low voices woke her. Victoria, disoriented, was not certain whether it was day or night, but she concluded that she must have slept soundly for an extended period of time. Taking stock. Her limbs felt weightless and disconnected; her throat was raw. A band of soreness encircled her midsection like a girdle, so like the aftermath of birth pains that she gasped and felt for the child.

"_She's stirring…check...stay…return_…" Lehzen, then. In one corner of her bedchamber, a woman in grey, dwarfed by her starched headdress. Cool hands, Victoria remembered. Capable, knowing just how to tend to one's bodily needs as if nothing was too vile. Even the syringe, with its horrible rubber tubing – Sister extracted the wide-bore needle so deftly that the movement scarcely hurt.

The bedchamber door opened just a crack, enough so that Victoria could recognize her old nurse. She slipped through that crack and closed the door firmly behind her. The nurse rose, expressionless as always but with something protective in her stance. They consulted together briefly.

That cool hand on her forehead again, laid flat, all business, but the woman's eyes were kind above the white linen mask that covered nose and mouth. She pulled back the blankets and straightened Victoria's limbs, then lifted her soiled nightdress and palpitated her stomach. Those eyes asked a question then, to which Victoria responded.

"I feel…better…" she said, hearing her own surprise. It had seemed as though the torture would go on forever, as if she would die in her own filth, nothing left inside to sustain her. The very words caused her stomach to roil in feeble protest but thankfully, no retching followed.

"Drina, Lord Melbourne is outside again. He has come on the hour, asking to see you. May I bring him to the door?"

_Dear Lehzen!_ Victoria felt a warm rush of affection. Then, belatedly understanding – her mind moved sluggishly – her eyes grew wide with alarm.

"No!" she would have shouted, if she had the strength. It came out as a mere whisper.

"A moment only, Drina – just from the door? He is quite insistent…and very concerned."

Victoria felt tears well up in her eyes, thick oily tears which blurred her vision without spilling over.

"He must not see me like this. If you can help me bathe and dress…"

Lehzen's lips tightened. It was a familiar expression, one Victoria had often seen when she was being unreasonable, yet her governess preferred not to argue. The nurse – Sister Mary Catherine, was it? – had no such compunction; she laughed under her mask, a light-hearted sound of amusement, as though Victoria had made a joke.

Lehzen, evidently finding some basis for compromise, dipped a clean cloth into the pan of water warming on the grate. She rang it out and wiped Victoria's face, neck and hands, then set it aside and began combing her long loose hair.

"Ach, a rat's nest! I will braid it for you later and…" Her mind wandering, Victoria relaxed under the familiar hands of her old governess while the woman talked.

"There!" Lehzen had pulled the bedcovers up and neatly folded back the top sheet just under her chin. "Wait, one last thing –" she lit one of the scented candles Victoria kept on her dressing table.

"Now – may I open the door?"

Victoria's heart fluttered in anticipation. _Such a little thing, such a short separation, and yet I'm as giddy as a bride_, she chided herself mentally.

Lehzen opened the door to her bedchamber and beckoned him forward. Victoria, in those moments, already struggled to keep her eyes open. Fatigue threatened to take her, to pull her down into sleep, but she would not sleep until she saw him, only for a moment…

Fever and depletion of her bodily resources, as well as what remained in her system of the opium which allowed her to rest, had the net effect of rendering Victoria woozy. She felt quite strange, as though she were floating just above the bed. He was there, infinitely familiar yet ineffably distant, as though he were an actor on a stage that she saw from the balcony, high above.

In that dimly lit sickroom populated only by women, Melbourne's energy surrounded him like a sparkling aura. She admired his costume – _no_; _suit_, she thought – and his fine figure. Snowy white lace at his throat and wrists against midnight blue velvet and gold braid. Slender well-shaped legs under tight white satin breeches and embroidered stockings. And his hair! Curling against high cheek bones, burnished silver, so soft –

"Beautiful!" Victoria whispered in awe. She lifted her hand, intending to reach for him, to touch and be sure it was no apparition. "Are you…real…?" She had meant to ask, _are you really here?_ but left the question unfinished.

"My little love!" Melbourne exclaimed. "Do not overtax yourself. I will withdraw and allow you to sleep. How does she do?"

He directed the question to Sister, and the woman responded immediately. She was polite but displayed no deference; pauper or queen, she would give each patient the care they needed.

"I think the worst is past. Until she can hold down liquid by mouth, we will continue intravenous hydration. Now it's a matter of rest and time, so that the body can heal itself. There is no other treatment."

"And the baby?"

"The heartbeat is rapid, as is normal for the unborn, and regular and strong."

"Victoria, may I step in? I have something for you –I would have given it to you before the ball, but…"

"The ball," Victoria repeated, tasting each word. Certain that it should mean something, but chasing the thought required more effort than she could make.

Melbourne left the doorway and advanced to the bed. He held a small leather box. She lacked the strength to reach for it, and waited for him to show her.

A locket suspended from a jeweled bracelet, many small diamonds encircling one large gemstone. He snapped open the locket to display a miniature of the two of them, painted shortly after their marriage. Words were engraved around the frame. Victoria squinted to see, but could not make them out.

"Shall I read it to you?" he asked, crouching at eye level. Victoria nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting in a tender smile.

"_'Come ti vidi, M’innamorai, E tu sorridi, Perchè lo sai_,'" he recited. Victoria felt herself drifting in the music of his voice, that caressing gruff voice which to her would always be the sound of love, no matter what he said. "_'When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled, because you knew_.'"

Victoria ached to touch him, to feel his heart beat under her hand. But contagion was all too possible, and if he fell ill on her account she would never forgive herself.

"Beautiful," she repeated, her eyes never leaving his face. She extended her hand again, her fingertips just brushing the blue satin sash he wore diagonally. It was the only order he had, the only one he would accept. The Royal Victorian Order, designed especially for him when he was still, in the eyes of the world, her minister, mentor and friend. _Only_ that, and he would always be that, only now he was so much more.

"The Ball," Victoria said suddenly, remembering.

"The Ball," Melbourne echoed. "Yes, ma'am, the Diplomatic Reception and Ball. It goes on – we could not postpone. You approve?"

"Yes…of course. You…know what to do."

"Indeed I know the best thing I could do, which would be to take off this suit and hide myself away. Let your mother and your uncle Cambridge represent the Crown. But he won't appear, if he must do it with her, and she likewise threatened to boycott. The hostility between them is insurmountable."

"No, not…Cambridge. No one but you. It would be a slight to you – a slight to _me_, if anyone but my lawfully wedded husband…"

"Rest easy, ma'am, I am resigned. The Duchess will take your place, and I will stand behind her."

Victoria sighed, abandoning the struggle to keep her eyes open. She still felt the satin sash under her fingers when she fell back asleep.

♛

The next time she opened her eyes Victoria came fully awake, for the first time in over twenty-four hours. Her head was clearer and when her stomach rumbled, she realized it was from hunger and not nausea.

A different nursing sister had replaced the other, this one so tall and broad-shouldered her size gave Victoria a start. But her face, above that ubiquitous mask, was rosy and smiling.

"How are we then, little ma'am?" the woman asked merrily, with a brogue every bit as lilting as Billy's.

"Better, I think. Hungry, even."

The sister chuckled, her eyes dancing. "No solid food for you yet, Majesty, but a few sips of fortifying broth. If that stays down, several times over, the doctor might permit a tablespoon of gruel in the morning."

She lifted Victoria's head and shoulders with one arm, plumping her pillows with the other. The broth was warm and savory, but a single mouthful took all her will to swallow. Rest, recoup, then repeat, Victoria parting her lips like an infant when the cup drew near.

"We'll wait a spell, and if that doesn't come up, you'll try a sip of water. Boiled and distilled, under doctor's supervision, never ye fear _that_."

Victoria rested her head and watched her nurse move about the chamber. She adjusted the flame under a simmering kettle, waited and then poured hot water into a basin. Victoria understood that the woman intended to bathe her, and was torn between mortification and relief at the thought of feeling clean. A second nurse entered, and between them they changed the bedding, fluffed pillows and replaced her duvet. Victoria attempted to brush her own hair, but it was not a task she performed regularly and as weak as she was, even lifting the brush proved beyond her ability.

When it was done, she felt nearly herself. Freshly washed and dusted with scented powder, her hands and face fragrant with lotion, Victoria marveled at the recuperative effect of simple cleanliness. She sat up, suddenly impatient with her own indolence, and was immediately struck by a wave of faintness so profound she thought she might swoon.

"Baby steps, little ma'am," the first nurse said, in the lighthearted singsong tone she might use with a child. Victoria, out of gratitude, repressed her irritation.

"What time is it?" she asked instead. "Is it morning?"

"Not a bit of it, ma'am. Still wants a few minutes more until midnight. If you listen closely you can hear the music, from time to time. They're having a fine time dancin'. We've taken turns slipping out to spy, just to see the costumes. Indians, like, and Chinamen and what-all-"

"Where?" Victoria asked sharply.

"The ballroom, ma'am. With all the gold mirrors and the big –"

"I know, the ballroom. _Where_ do you go to watch? Are you able to see without being seen?"

"You betcha, ma'am. One of the housemaids showed us where to stand…" Victoria listened closely, as the young Irish Sister described one of the many servants' passages with which the palace was honeycombed.

"Take me," she said.

They both argued the impossibility of such a thing, pointing out that Victoria could scarcely sit up unaided.

"A wheeled chair, then. I used one after my children were born. Help me…please, Sister, I will not forget if you help me."

Scarcely able to hold her head up, having taken no more than a spoonful of broth and barely able to keep that down, such a request would have been ignored by an older woman. The young Irish postulant was not so impervious to either the lofty rank of her famous patient or, perhaps, the prospect of sharing in midnight adventure to relieve the monotony of emptying bedpans

Cocooned in blankets and supported by pillows, Victoria was rolled down the narrow servants' back passage. She squeezed her eyes shut, fearing that moving surroundings would exacerbate that dreadful kaleidoscope dance of vertigo which made the whole world spin out of control. Her dreadful weakness, and swaddling, so helpless she was dependent on another to meet her most basic needs, triggered sense memories of infancy, before language gave meaning to physical sensation. Too weary to make sense of the surreal moment, Victoria wished she was back in her bed.

"Look, ma'am!" Sister's voice was shrill with delight, her round face flushed with excitement. They were in a small closet filled with mops and pails. A thin wooden panel had been removed from the back wall, by a footman the nurse had suborned.

The whole ballroom could be seen from their hidden vantage, a fabulous glittering tableau. Victoria was transfixed by the hundreds upon hundreds of flickering candles reflected in the prisms of crystal chandeliers and gold, so much gold. Golden frames on the portraits lining the walls, golden mirrors in gilt frames. Gold leaf on the coffered ceilings, and gold on the people dancing below. They swayed hypnotically in the movement of the dance, ladies in their ravishing gowns a rainbow of colors, counterpoint to gentlemen in black and white. Jewels and gold braid, medals and ribbons. And there they were, the King and Queen – resplendent on red velvet cushions. He, more handsome than any fairy prince, and she –

_Mama!_ Victoria whispered aloud. Mama wore white embroidered with silver, a mantle of white fur on her bare shoulders. Diamond-rimmed purple stones sparkled at her ears and throat, a set Victoria knew well. The Kent amethysts, a gift from Dear Papa – her brows knitted together in a frown. Who was that man at Mama's side, if not Papa? Surely it is – but no, it cannot be –

The confusion frustrated her so much that she began to cry weakly.

"Take me back to bed. Mama will be angry if she catches us." Victoria's whisper was barely audible, but it was enough to bring the nurse back to awareness of her duty.

Pushing her muddled thoughts away – _I'll think of it later, after I rest_ – Victoria remembered her prayers and sent them silently heavenward, remembering to be grateful that the worst of her sickness had passed. Nearly her last thought, as recuperative sleep took hold, was _Mama has everything she ever wanted. _But the name on her lips, drifting on her breath, was _William._

_ _


	21. Chapter 21

Melbourne could think of the evening ahead as nothing but a minefield he must tread with the utmost caution. The elder Victoria, Duchess of Kent and Royal Mother – Victoria had granted the title several years into her reign, part of Melbourne's gentle intercession – stood by his side, at the head of the formal receiving line. The Duchess was effervescent, her pleasure scarcely concealed by her customary _hauteur. _Melbourne was neither so inexperienced nor so cynical that he assumed she could not hold competing emotions – one could and did, every minute of every day – but her affectionate concern for her daughter found solace in this long-sought opportunity to shine in her own right.

She wore the gown designed for Victoria, and if her dazzling amethyst necklace and earrings were her own, the tiara sitting atop her head was one of Victoria's as well, far grander than those adorning other feminine heads.

Melbourne thought he understood the Duchess tolerably well, and their own relationship had frown from the early mutual antipathy, to grudgingly cordial to something like a normal affection between a mother-in-law and her daughter's husband. Yet he was ever mindful that Victoria of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld hungered for male attention, and they were near-contemporaries in age. She had none of the traits he found most alluring, keen intelligence, wit, natural charisma that owed nothing to deliberation or artifice, but her age would have been no barrier. Melbourne had never been particularly interested in very young females, and his harshest, most straight-laced critics never accused him of making one the object of his gallantry.

As they would have in any case, Lord and Lady Palmerston stood in the receiving line as well. Newly returned as Foreign Secretary, Palmerston's fiery impulsiveness was viewed with trepidation by many of the foreign diplomatic service. His extended tour of western Europe had done much to mend fences and after France's recent perfidy he was generally regarded as prescient at home. Victoria, to her credit, had apologized personally and through Russell's cabinet for mistrusting her Foreign Secretary. In a letter to her cabinet, the contents of which she fully intended Louis-Phillippe, she had declared her fellow sovereign's conduct ‘beyond all belief shameful, and so shabbily dishonest’, whilst commending Palmerston to Russell, asking him to relay her remarks to the French chargé d’affaires, ‘In our opinion Lord Palmerston has conducted himself with the greatest moderation and calm reflection throughout this painful transaction.’ When Victoria shared with Melbourne her feelings that the entente cordiale had been destroyed, not by Palmerston but by the deceitful diplomacy of Louis-Philippe, he could only sigh with relief that an open break with her own Foreign Secretary had been successfully averted.

"On behalf of Her Most Gracious Majesty, we welcome you…"Melbourne had repeated the same phrase hundreds of times, never once deviating from form. Each dignitary would bow in the English fashion and their ladies dip into graceful or not-so-graceful curtsies. Melbourne would return the bow punctiliously, underlining the fact that he did not consider himself royalty, and then add some humanizing comment using details gleaned from Foreign Service dossiers.

The theme of the ball was 1746, and most western ministers appeared in the fashions of a hundred years prior. Eastern plenipotentiaries' attire varied, some of them bedecked in the fantastical costumes of their homeland, past or present, and others in plain white tie and exquisitely tailored tailcoats.

Melbourne bemoaned the need for period costume as much as any other gentleman, but he was secretly well pleased by the admiring glances his frogged coat and white satin knee breeches earned. No other coy inviting glances, no tongues passing over plump pursed lips, no coquettish head tosses could compare to the shocked admiration on Victoria's face when he presented himself to her.

When an inward-looking smile softened his features, it was that interlude with Victoria which warmed him. Surely he had lived several lifetimes without her, four decades before she drew her first breath and two more after. He often searched the annals of memory and he did so again, whilst bowing and murmuring polite greetings. He sought some forgotten premonition, an alignment of the stars, the universe bearing witness on that Monday in May of 1819, that life as he knew it had altered its course?

All the ministers present had previously presented their credentials to the Queen, so her absence caused no keen disappointment. This was their opportunity to see and be seen, to begin weaving their webs of intrigue or alliance. There was no direct announcement concerning the Queen's absence, but Emily had been hard at work on her petticoat diplomacy. Her Majesty was in the family way, and experiencing the entirely normal, if unpleasant, travails of that delicate condition. It was essential to avoid even the appearance of concern, or allude to any irregularity. It was a convenient excuse, and one which would be readily accepted, pre-empting backstairs gossip about symptoms which might otherwise be attributed to the twin plagues of cholera and typhus.

Melbourne would have preferred to sit out every dance, as he considered dancing a young person's pursuit. His lame leg, nearly imperceptible under ordinary conditions, was most inclined to trip him up on the dance floor. He waltzed with his own sister to open the ball and then, leaning more heavily on his walking stick than was strictly necessary, retired from the lists.

"_Your Grace."_ Princess Lieven sketched the merest suggestion of a curtsy, a smile wreathing her face. Dorothea von Lieven was an attractive woman who wore her sixty years well, and Melbourne liked her greatly. She was a stickler for form and imposed a strict inviolable etiquette on Almack's, of which she was a co-founder. It was due to her – and, of course, Emily's grudging intercession – that Caro had not been entirely ruined in society by her early escapades, pre-Glenarvon. After that, not even the joint intercession of the most influential society doyennes could save her.

"Your Highness." Melbourne bowed and kissed the back of her hand. He looked at her for permission, then folded his arm around that hand and led them to a quiet corner.

"William, I vow, you look better each time I see you. Marriage agrees with you."

"Love agrees with me, Dorothea. As it does you, if I might say."

"Ah, yes, love. Will I sound unforgivably saccharine if I confess that François is the love of my life?"

"Quite easily forgiven, my dear, especially by me, since I would share the same sentiment."

"Ah, but you rolled the dice with far more at stake than I did. _Mes petites amours _never carried quite the same risks, and provided much of value for effort expended."

Melbourne followed the direction of her gaze and saw it settle on the Palmerstons.

"How ironic that we who lived life on our own terms gather here, our domestic felicity on display. Whilst the younger generation of prudes, those who aspire to forfeit their own social position and embrace the ideals of the bourgeoisie, will never know the pleasures, the pains, the sheer zest of a life well lived."

"As you say, Madame." Melbourne took champagne from the footman hovering just behind him. He gave one glass to the princess and raised another. "I find I can scarcely remember what came before. She is my true love, and my last."

"To those we have loved and lost, and those we have loved and won." Their eyes met in perfect amity and they drank together.

"How fares your _petite reine_? Now I can call her that openly, but once I shocked you with my intuition."

Melbourne remembered their conversation at Versailles, and the apprehension of discovery which had him tied in knots. For _her_ sake, certainly; for the child's and even Albert's, but for his own as well. That, the less-than-flattering truth, he could not deny. No intrepid lover, he had feared discovery with all that entailed every moment of every hour of every day.

"And you, madame? You made no secret of your own _liaisons dangereuses_; in fact, you made each a triumph of diplomatic intrigue."

"How unchivalrous of you, Lord Melbourne!" She tapped his arm lightly with her fan, as if to chastise, but Melbourne knew better by the self-satisfied smirk on her lips. "Nesselrode, Metternich, Wellington, Grey…" Dorothea tipped her fan in the direction of Palmerston again. "_That_ one disposed of me quite cruelly, for which I swore I'd never forgive him."

"If you speak of your recall, I believe he had no choice," Melbourne answered mildly, reluctant to stir up the old grievance. "The Tsar refused to have Canning and we could not recognize their ambassador if they would not receive ours. Lieven had to go. I believe you fell victim to your own mischief. But let's not speak of the past. Tell me how you find life as _Maitresse de Paris_."

They spoke until Melbourne's attention was claimed by Emily, who led him away.

"That woman has quite monopolized you," she reprimanded. "Now set beside your mama-in-law and I will bring Mustafa Reşid to you."

"Where is he? Show me and I will go to him. We were acquainted in '34, you know."

"Indeed I do. And I will do no such thing. Remember whom you represent, and allow him to come to you."

Whether it was on Emily's orders or those of the Duchess, two gilt chairs from the Presence chamber had been set on a raised, canopied dais at one end of the ballroom. Customarily, a simply furnished alcove was reserved for the Queen and her immediate party to rest and observe the dancers. Melbourne studiously avoided the more prominent arrangement for as long as he could, but after several hours on his feet his back pained him and he knew he was limping noticeably.

"There you are!" The Duchess beamed when he approached, and he told himself it was foolish to concern oneself with something as simple as a chair. Even a red velvet –

Melbourne craned his neck to look at the embroidery work. "Is that -?" Indeed it was; an ornate _M_, over the three strawberry leaves of a ducal coronet. He sighed and shifted his weight, knowing that he would face the next hours on his feet rather than seat himself on something so closely resembling a throne. With Victoria beside him, he could make light of the pretensious display. It would be travesty to occupy a throne beside her mother.

When the Ottoman empire's vizier approached and bowed, Victoria the Elder inclined her head in a regal nod. Melbourne, subtly emphasizing the fact that he was no sovereign himself, returned the Turk's obeisance with a modest bow.

"Lord Melbourne! How very good it is to see you again! May I extend the very belated congratulations of my master and myself, on your marriage and ascendancy? And of course, on the happy news to come as well."

Mustafa Reşid Pasha had been the Turkish ambassador to London in '34 and '35, and succeeded in enlisting Britain's support against Muhammad Ali in Egypt. He had returned to his homeland triumphant, and emphatically pro-Western to assume the post of Foreign Minister. France allied itself with Egypt over Syria, which left Melbourne's government no choice but once again back the Ottomans. Melbourne idly wondered what new scheme was afoot in the East, to bring Reşid back to London.

"I will happily accept your congratulations on my marriage, Vizier, as I am the most fortunate of men in that regard. As to my ascendancy, I fear you may have been misinformed. I am out of government and retired from all public service. I am only a humble servant of Her Majesty the Queen."

Mustafa Reşid Pasha nodded his head in acknowledgement, while his black eyes sparkled with amused understanding. What he _thought_ he understood, Melbourne told himself.

"As you say, Viscount Melbourne. Your Royal Highness," he turned his attention to the Duchess, who preened under his dark-eyed gaze.

The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of dancers, swirling colorfully under the many chandeliers, and the buzz of pleasant conversation. Melbourne thought he acquitted himself well, self-effacing when forced to politely contradict any who presumed to address either an officially named Consort or a Royal Highness. His was, he knew, an ambiguous position.

Ministers viewed their monarchs as little more than pawns in the great game. As in chess, the King – or Queen – might be the ultimate symbolic prize, but they uniformly lacked the actual autonomy of a simple rook. Even in absolute monarchies such as Russia, the sovereign was utterly dependent on shrewd advisers to make and execute policy. In the rarefied playing field of international politics and diplomacy, a two-term Prime Minister would be considered eccentric, even mad, to sacrifice power, prestige and the respect of his counterparts to climb willingly into a gilded cage.

"That's Dr. Dietz, with the Portuguese ambassador," Palmerston had caught up with him near the end of the evening. "He's the Stockmar to King Ferdinand and Queen Maria. She's as absolutist as you would expect in an Iberian sovereign, and Dietz encourages all her worst autocratic instincts. If he's allowed to continue, that will be the next hot spot."

Ferdinand, another Coburg cousin of Victoria's, had been crowned king after the birth of their first child. Victoria dismissed Maria as a foolish woman, but watched her situation closely. Revolt was imminent, and Palmerston and Victoria agreed that something must be done but disagreed on exactly what they could, or should, do. Lord Howard de Walden, the British ambassador, advocated sending troops, and the Queen was naturally sympathetic toward another anointed queen. Palmerston was less inclined to become embroiled in direct action, and horrified Victoria by asserting that the rebel Junta was not entirely wrong.

"If we could get Dietz out of the way, then Victoria might be able to persuade Maria to compromise. I suspect he's here for exactly the wrong reason, to persuade our queen to send a full complement of ships and men to suppress the rebellion."

"He'll be having no audience for the foreseeable future. She's out of danger, I think, but can scarcely hold her head up yet."

"That's what I'm getting at, William. _You_ agree to an audience. Hear him out and then let him know there's absolutely no chance we'll spill English blood in Portugal. No need to worry the queen with it; see the fellow tomorrow and send him on his way."

"That is not going to happen," Melbourne laughed, shaking his head. "You're incorrigible, Henry."

"Not even if it means putting an immediate end to their futile opposition? You persuade Dietz that it's in the best interests of everyone to make a few concessions. I'll send my own emissary to convince the Junta they cannot win a civil war and promise them that, if they renewed their allegiance to Queen Maria, the British government will do all that it could to persuade Queen Maria to grant an amnesty, dismiss her reactionary ministers, restore the constitution and recall the Cortes."

"Henry, I'll tell you the same thing I would say to Dietz directly, and that is, we must wait for the Queen to recover sufficiently to give it the attention it deserves. I'll tell you, privately, what I would _not_ tell him, and that is, if she asks my opinion, I will endorse of the compromise you propose. What I won't do is act on her behalf, without her knowledge or approval. I won't _appear_ to act on her behalf either, if you are going to suggest I meet with this Dietz only to give you political cover to do as you wish."

To Melbourne's relief, his brother-in-law did not press the issue. If he let his frustration show, he said no more, only changing the subject to praise a Frenchwoman's breasts. They discussed which fruit most closely aligned in size to the breasts in question before debating optimal dimensions.

"Strictly a matter of preference, Will, but I prefer abundance. A surfeit, even."

"Harry, I cannot agree. More than a handful's a waste…"

As he would have done with _his_ Victoria, Melbourne found her mother and claimed her for the last waltz, the Duchess simpering and cooed with pleasure as he led her onto the floor. He settled his hand on her back, sternly ordering his leg to comply with the demands he was about to place on it. With the end in sight, he was willing to give it a go. _One final dance, and say good night, and then - _then, he would go to Victoria, and not take no for an answer. He would cradle her in his arms, or sleep in a chair beside the bed comforted by the sound of her breath.

♛

The bedchamber was empty. Not only empty; a window was cracked, to admit frigid December air. The great State bed was stripped bare and even the rugs had been taken up. Everywhere he looked Melbourne saw glistening pristine surfaces, with no trace of human occupancy.

His stomach turned over so suddenly that he feared he was about to be sick, with the same gut-wrenching nausea that had plagued Victoria. Panic rose, an obstruction in his throat, a sharp pain in his breast. _Where was she? What had happened?_

Melbourne backed out of the room, stumbled and nearly fell. He cursed and righted himself and fumbled through the murky darkness.

"Where is – the Queen?" he croaked, his voice cracking painfully. His sudden appearance, or perhaps the deranged expression on his face, frightened the hall page. The boy's round eyes and white panicked face undoubtedly mirrored his own, Melbourne realized.

"Where is Her Majesty? Where are the nurses? Lehzen – Baroness Lehzen? Where is the Baroness?"

He looked down at his hand, gripping the page's shoulder, shaking him so roughly that the gold epaulet came loose. They both watched it fall to the floor, spellbound. His trance broken, the page stepped back, ran into the wall and then, his last vestige of courage abandoning him, ran headlong down the corridor. Melbourne watched him go, his muddled thoughts screaming to make sense of it all.


	22. Chapter 22

_Disinfectant_. I repeated the word, shaping it with tongue and teeth. I could attach no particular meaning; all my senses clung to the good, plain face of Baroness Lehzen, the matter-of-factness in her accented speech. Not _my_ Lehzen, but _hers_, more a mother than her own mother had been. Lehzen the practical, no-nonsense German spinster who had devoted her entire life to my girl.

I could make no sense of it all, while seconds stretched into minutes. Or so it seemed at the time.

Lehzen's greying hair was unbound, hanging down her back in a thick braid. She wore nightclothes and slippers, but otherwise was the same stolid figure, unchanging in a world gone mad.

She made some sound in the back of her throat, a hoarse thickened inarticulate noise which conveyed volumes. _There, there_, it might have meant, or _everything is all right. _Even only _I am here now, there's no need to fuss_. Her hand, strong and sure, clasped my arm.

_Disinfectant_, she said again. Victoria had ventured from her sickbed, albeit briefly – an _outing_, Lehzen called it – and so they had taken advantage of her absence to move her into the unoccupied King's Bedchamber. This spacious suite had been built and furnished on a gargantuan scale, designed by Nash for George IV. Albert might have claimed it as his own, except he preferred the privacy and freedom afforded him by that private wing he co-opted. I might have done likewise, had I dared, but I preferred my own cozy apartment to read and write. I'd been sleeping there – if one could call it thus – the past few nights, in deference to Victoria's wishes and so, by custom of usage, it became the Consort's suite, only I suppose because the servants must call it something. Of course, these thoughts ran pell mell over one another as I digested the information – I write them here in a far comprehensible manner than they presented themselves in the moment.

I recollected myself in time to resist manfully, the urge to lay my head on that chenille-covered shoulder. As though she understood the impulse, Lehzen put her arm on my back and guided me through the doorway through which she had emerged.

Once within, I paid little attention to the profusion of gold, the twenty foot ceilings adorned with plump cherubs and voluptuous angels, the fragile porcelain figurines scattered over every surface. The only detail I marked was a nest of blankets on one tapestried sofa. Lehzen put a finger to her lips, but there was no need. I heard my own heavy breathing, felt the cold sweat of fear chilling my skin.

_What had I imagined, for one horrible second? _That she had never been, as I know her, that we had never been. That I walked in that dreamscape where I was the ghost, cast off, forgotten, consigned to a past she chose to forget. That I stumbled through the doorway into an empty cold world, a world in which I had no place.

"She is mending, Lord Melbourne," Lehzen told me in a near-soundless whisper, the words carried on a breath of air. "She sleeps a natural sleep. The fever has broken and there has been no more purging."

Whether miasma, as most physicians believe, or the invisible _germs_ of Semmelweiss and Dr. Snow, the Queen's bedchamber has been cleansed and disinfected. All the bedding and towels will be bleached or destroyed and the mattress replaced. I think she saw my difficulty in attending to her words because that strong, stern face creased into what I recognized as a Lehzen smile.

"Would you like to go to her now?" Even as she made me the offer, she must have known it was all my heart desired. A wash stand had been placed outside the sleeping chamber, and a kettle steamed on the coal stove concealed behind a garish screen. I washed and used the nail brush, Lehzen unabashedly holding back the absurd lace at my wrists. I only then noted I was still in the costume of a dandy from 1746.

Baroness Lehzen's thin spinster lips quirked with humor, so unusual an event it had the dual effect of providing final reassurance – surely she would not indulge in such a rare display, if her darling was still in distress – and gratifying me with a sense of privilege I had not felt in that ballroom, receiving the obeisance of our illustrious guests.

She stepped and motioned me forward. I would go in alone, then.

It was a full ten metres from the doorway to the foot of that towering State bed. My precious girl was dwarfed by its size. She slept peacefully, the palm of one small hand under her cheek, her brown hair fanned out across the lace pillows. I had no wish to disturb her, and no power to stay away.

King George's bed, never used – the world knows how he isolated himself at Windsor during those last years - had been built to support his 24 stone weight and so my own scarcely indented the mattress. I would not impose myself, if she still preferred solitude, only…

I had no sooner settled myself, in a reclining posture, than she turned over in her sleep. She migrated to my side, closing the distance, and huddled against me as if for warmth, her face pressed against my side so each exhalation tickled me even through my velvet coat.

Sometime later the door opened just a crack and my own gaze met Lehzen's. Flushed with guilt – _had I abused my privilege, even impeded my darling's recovery? _– I extricated myself and stood. Without speaking, the Baroness came in, padding on quilted slippers. She efficiently tugged at the sleeve of my tight-fitting tailcoat and guided it off my shoulders, then laid it on a bedside chair. Her look told me it was permitted I stay, and even offered to assist me further. As though she were my old nurse, she would have played the valet but I could not impose so far. Instead I let her see the gratitude in my eyes. We communicated wordlessly. She: _I will sleep just out there; call if she needs me_. Me: _Thank you. I will. _And_ thank you, again and again, a thousand times. For your loving care of our angel, for making her a strong independent woman fit to be queen, for safeguarding her until she found me._

Alone once more I removed those hard patent leather shoes with gold paste buckles, peeled off embroidered silk stockings and cravat. Waistcoat was discarded; shirt and breeches remained. More comfortable, I lifted the covers and slid in beside my slumbering wife, my precious girl, my queen. She came to me without waking and I opened my arms, and she pillowed her head on my chest.

I had found those lines in a play I once read, and stored them away in memory. As if written for us, they told our story, and I recited them once more in my head: _Come ti vidi, M’innamorai..._

♛

Two of her four physicians returned in the morning, one of them to administer the dreaded _rehydration treatment_ and the other to listen to fetal heart sounds with a trumpet-shaped device he called a _stethoscope_. Dr. Snow approved the return of the Queen to her own newly-cleansed chamber, so long as she did not walk under her own power, and said the nursery quarantine could be safely lifted, so long as they were confined to the family apartments and all who entered were first given a clean bill of health.

Sickness still persisted in the servants' quarters. Baines and Skerrett were on the mend, but several others had gone down in their place. Investigation confirmed that in each case, basic hygienic measures had been disregarded. _Face masks_, Snow demanded, _and only the water to be used for cooking and drinking must be passed through the distillation apparatus. _Previously only the Royal household used that sterile supply, but Snow's edict was that all who lived or worked in the Palace must in future rely solely on distilled water, as he himself did.

It might never be known with absolute certainly, whether it was typhus, cholera or severe influenza to which they succumbed. Treatment was symptomatic for all, and if there had been none of the typical rice water excretions, Snow waved off the criteria as no more than suggestive. Principles of contagion remained the same, he said, muttering to himself the early text of the paper he would write.

Once the worst was past, Victoria passed through the early stages of recovery. From listless half-consciousness, drifting in and out of sleep, she became demanding and easily vexed. Melbourne cared only that she conserve her strength, and listened to her litany of complaints with good humor.

She heard the details of the Diplomatic Ball, laughing at the bits Melbourne hoped would amuse her, asking shrewd questions, even agreeing to Lord Palmerston's request that Melbourne receive Queen Maria's envoy.

"She's a foolish woman, but I've never known her to be stupid. You and Harry are perfectly correct, that Portugal cannot go on as it was. Maria is an anointed queen, and that must count for something. If only _her_ consort were as wise as mine." Victoria's tone remained stern, but her gaze was fond and admiring. "She must compromise in some regards, and the Junta must swear fealty. Constitutional monarch – everything as Henry said… as you think best – but be sure to properly convey that you are speaking for me…"

"I will," Melbourne answered, and "as you say, ma'am," and "we will see to it." Those were his answers to everything she said, as of course they would be in any case. But now, measuring her fortitude in minutes, he made haste to reassure her. Victoria would listen and respond decisively, ensconced in her own bed once more on a virtual mountain of pillows, and then as quickly she would revert to the posture of a sick child and reach for the comfort of his embrace. Her recovery was variable, as was often the case, or so the physicians reassured them. Relieved of the gastrointestinal storms, she noticed myriad minor ailments. She complained of headache, only relieved by sleep, and vague aches and pains.

"Her Majesty must rest, and give herself time to recover. For her sake and that of the child." It was said and repeated at each visit from her doctors, and enforced by her caretakers as best they could. Lehzen stood guard, dividing her time between nurslings. Nominally the prince and princess were no longer her charge, but she ran the nursery as she did the Queen's household and maintained close, suspicious supervision of those entrusted with daily care of the children.

Late in the afternoon which followed the Ball, Victoria's mother made her triumphant entrance. She regaled her daughter with examples of the success of the ball, necessarily entwined with her own. _I'm glad, Mama,_ Victoria agreed wanly. _You did well, Mama, and I am grateful_. Melbourne sat in the chair beside her bed, keeping a proper distance, but kept close, silent watch to ensure that she did not overtax her meagre reserves of strength,

At the end of her visit the Duchess, still beaming with self-congratulatory pride, bent as if to kiss Victoria. She did not close the gap between them, clearly determined to wisely avoid any potential contagion.

"I nearly forgot," she trilled. "Dear Feodora has landed on our shores, and Carl will be here with Maria and the boys the day after tomorrow. When do we leave for Windsor?"

Melbourne had entirely forgotten that Victoria had planned to host her extended family at Windsor Castle for the holidays. Certainly, preparations must have continued apace but she herself had said nothing of the visit since before she fell ill. He had no particular issue with her family, not even with her uncle so long as the detestable Baron Stockmar was kept away. Now, however – he looked at Victoria anxiously.

Her own expression was stricken, which told him that she _had_ put the matter out of mind. She forced a small pained smile that did not reach her eyes.

"Dear Feodora," Victoria said, echoing her mother.

"She sends her love and many kisses, and asks me to tell you she counts the hours until she can embrace you. Of course the dear children and their father are also excited at the prospect of spending many hours with you."

"Of course," Victoria repeated without expression. "My head is quite swimming, Mama. I must rest. Thank you again for all you did to meet our ambassadors and make the ball a success."

When they were alone behind the closed oak door, Victoria slid down in bed and turned onto her side.

"I must rest, William. Sit with me until I fall asleep?

"Gladly," Melbourne responded, moving smoothly to the bed. His mind was occupied with the note he would write, to summon Dr. Dietz and his own brother-in-law to Buckingham, and also with the dilemma of how to entertain Victoria's numerous relatives whilst she herself remained in bed. At most, perhaps, she might join them in the drawing room for an hour or two each evening. But at Windsor the rooms were spread out even more than in the palace, and the place was draughty and chill, as impervious to modern heating methods as only an ancient fortress could be.

He smoothed her hair and stroked her back and caressed her rounded belly, petting her until her slow even breathing told him she slept. While he held her, he thought of a plan, the only possible resolution to the conundrum which faced them. She could not turn them away, even pleading illness: her family members had convened from all over Europe. Even the fierce Cumberland, King of Hanover, had accepted an invitation sent mostly as courtesy. He above all would expect to be welcomed at Windsor, but none of them could be sent packing without recriminations, even scandal.

Very well, then, Melbourne thought, let them come. And let the Duchess of Kent greet them. She clearly reveled in every opportunity to play a regnal role; she could queen it over her relations for a fortnight. He would take Victoria to Brocket Hall, only the two of them, the children and a core group of servants. No ladies-in-waiting, no equerries or silly, giggling maids of honor; only the family. Melbourne warmed to the idea, as he imagined it would play out. Bring one or two of the nursing sisters, or even a physician if one would abandon his own family on Christmas. Snow was a bachelor, by all accounts; bring the good doctor, and he could make himself at home in the library. Write his _Lancet_ article in rural quiet, and oversee the Queen's recovery. Billy, of course; they needed protection, even in the placid Hertfordshire countryside, and he was nearly a member of the family. A dozen people at most; Brocket servants could provide for their needs. He need only send a messenger down to alert the housekeeper.

If only Victoria would agree. Melbourne kissed the top of her dark head. He was no Ferdinand, nor did he want to be. He did not crave temporal power. Only just now, for the good of his wife and their unborn child, he wished he might exercise some semblance of authority.


	23. Chapter 23

_It's been a damnably cold, grim season. Near-constant rain has churned the ground under a leaden sky, so all is painted and shades of grey. This gentle Midlands landscape may as well be a northern moor, atmospheric gloom where Mrs. Shelley's fiend would feel at home._

Melbourne held his commonplace book balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa, which made writing a legible hand even more unlikely. They would have closed the shutters and pulled the drapes at the early onset of night, except he had waved the footman off, not wanting to be disturbed. _A duty one owes to posterity_, as more ardent diarists claimed, had always struck him as entirely pretentious and vaguely ridiculous reasoning. _Let posterity read my letters, if anyone is interested when I'm gone._ It had seemed absurd to imagine future generations would have any interest in an obscure 19th century politician. But then, everything changed.

Melbourne's idle gaze left the window and fell on his reading chair. It stood in one corner, surrounded by the volumes he especially loved, and he mused at the thousands of hours he had spent alone in that chair, in this room, hiding from a censorious world in the bosom of the ancients. Cracked leather volumes, early Church Fathers sharing shelf space with the best of the Greeks, brittle manuscript pages attesting to hard use, no collector's pieces these. Portraits in miniature, his mother and late wife, Em as a girl, George IV when he was Prince Florizel and the darling of the nation.

He glanced around the room, which had borne witness to so much of his life. Happy unfettered early boyhood, he and his brothers roaming the woods and fields. College years when, as much as he pretended to revel in a young man's freedom, he had yearned for his mother's companionship. The giddy, effervescent early days with Caroline, when they were lost in one another. In memory it was always summer then, Caro's fair head hatless in the sun, her skin turning bronze as a boy's. Long summer days when he would read while she sketched, and they would lie together in the grass. Later, the lively, happy domesticity Caro engendered, pets and children and the inevitable strays she added to their family forming a retinue for his fey faerie bride.

Not all the memories were happy ones, of course. There was that period of self-imposed exile, when he'd pretended to write whilst licking his wounds, unable to face the pitying looks of society and then later still, when it was Caro, her bright glamour extinguished, who found sanctuary within these walls.

_Brocket Hall_, Melbourne mused, tasting the words, had been confidant and confessor, had sheltered him when he retreated from the world in humiliation, had seen the best and the worst of him. And like a mother – like _his _beloved mother – Brocket Hall offered unconditional love to those who loved her in return.

Melbourne sighed softly, shaking off the memories, soft-edged and worn with age. He had been once loved _Ariel_, and now – _Gloriana, _the name wafting on his breath like a feather.

He shifted gingerly to reach the dusty bottle of claret that stood on a table beside him, but the movement was enough to awaken Victoria. Her head was pillowed on his lap and her sweet face was softened by sleep. Warm amber lamplight reflected in her eyes, so twin flames looked back him.

"Hello," Melbourne whispered, stroking the line of her jaw with a finger.

♛

They had travelled nearly alone to Brocket Hall, attended only by Victoria's nurse, a few trusted servants and the ever-present security detail. A night and a day and another night during which he had her all to himself, or nearly. She had made the journey swathed in furs, reclining on cushions. Melbourne had watched her closely for any sign her illness had returned, but the only reminder of past indisposition was a slight fatigue that she would have fought past, if she could. Nothing irritated her nerves more than the constant inquiries into her health and condition, and the cloying, cossetting attentions of her family. And yet –

Melbourne had allowed the image to form in his mind, and grew as he lay in the dark. The two of them alone at his country home, away from the bustle and clamor that would inevitably reign when her German relations arrived. He told himself he was thinking only of _her_, of his precious girl, so recently ravaged by illness, best kept quiet where she was able to rest. He imagined bringing her to the Hall, his beloved home – _their_ home, theirs alone – and could see clearly how it would be. Victoria, bathed in that golden glow, the very walls alive in her presence.

It had been easily done. Clarke was a silly, pompous man, ambitious to a fault. Only a few words, carefully chosen, to suggest that, should anything go awry, blame would be laid at his feet. Even Snow, sure of his medical knowledge, was unable to deny that relapse or recontagion _was_ possible. And both men shared the unspoken assumption that, even when a _woman_ reigned supreme as head of Church and State, her husband was head of the family.

_Asian influenza was epidemic on the Continent,_ they said, reminding the Queen how many miles her brother and sister had traveled. Exposed to every manner of disease on land and, even worse, at the docks. Snow's dry academic discourse on the inevitable spread of contagious disease from East to West was more compelling than Clarke's lugubrious description of all the harm which could befall a woman with child, already in a weakened state.

Melbourne only half-attended, trying to ignore the sudden nagging voice of conscience.

_Where you have her undivided attention, William._ It was his mother's voice, dear pragmatic Lady M. _And where she's entirely dependent on you._

That was not fair, he silently retorted. And yet, he experienced brief self-doubt. He wanted Victoria back on her feet, firm and decisive, strong-willed and independent, fairly bristling with energy. Of course he did! But there was something appealing about her sweet vulnerability and the way she clung to him, childlike, in illness. And she was so very rarely ill.

_You are scheming behind her back, Willie. At least admit it to yourself. And beware of what you wish for._ That was Caro, her distinctive Devonshire drawl and her laconic, semi-amused tone.

"That weakness upon rising which you experience, Your Majesty, is syncope," Dr. Clarke was saying. "A sudden drop in your blood pressure, which could result in fainting. And that, of course, might result in significant injury in your delicate condition. It's not abnormal, during the recuperative phase. Strong men have been laid low a fortnight or more, from influenza, even more if in fact you suffered from cholera or typhus. Your body is demanding rest, for the child's sake as well as your own."

Clarke concluded his speech with a flourish, prescribing a fortnight of strict seclusion, most beneficial outside of London in the countryside.

When Victoria understood what both men were saying her lip began to tremble. Melbourne knew she would never show such weakness, if she were not still fragile from her recent illness.

"Away from London? Away from Windsor? But I can't – it's Christmas – my family –" when she turned to Melbourne he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. "William, please, say something!"

Carl, Prince of Leiningen, 15 years Victoria's senior, had already reached English shores with his Maria and their two sons. Both were sturdy adolescents, 13 and 16, Melbourne recalled, certainly no babes in arms.

Feodora and her stateless, near-penniless Prince, had travelled separately from Carl. Victoria would have, as she always did, sent both the Royal yacht, a commodious steamer, and a substantial stipend to cover the expenses of traveling with six children. Her eldest was nearly marriageable age, with nothing much to offer a prospective bride's family, while the youngest was only a year older than Liam.

Liam and Lily scarcely knew their European cousins. Victoria and Feodora exchanged weekly letters, and she had never entirely ceased pining for the companionship of a sister who had left Kensington to wed when she was only nine.

Melbourne bore them no ill will, even if they were a bloody dull, stodgy lot. He told himself that as a sop to conscience, uncomfortably aware that he _did_ secretly consider her German relatives unwelcome interlopers in the life he and Victoria had built together. And this time, the voice he heard was his own.

"Doctors, surely we can find a way to ensure the Queen's comfort and well-being, whilst permitting her to spend Christmas with her family. Her _entire_ family."

Victoria happily compromised, willing to curtail her activity. She reclined on a sofa, covered with a light shawl, surrounded by noisy talkative relations. Liam's birthday was celebrated at a Christmas Eve luncheon, his presents arrayed on a table. Only Lily protested the perceived unfairness, of her brother receiving gifts early.

The rest of the family opened their gifts on Christmas Eve, after the Duchess of Kent led her family into St. George's chapel. Melbourne lounged at his ease, in a chair beside Victoria's sofa, watching over the rim of his class while the adults gleefully opened the gifts they had chosen for one another. Feodora sat on Victoria's other side, and they clasped hands throughout the evening.

Victoria's cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright, but Melbourne was tolerably certain that was from pleasure and not fever. She looked at him frequently, and once beckoned him close.

"Are you enjoying yourself, darling?"

"I am!" Melbourne was able to answer truthfully. If his enjoyment came in watching her own, rather than from this European contingent, it was contentment nonetheless.

Later that night, they lay in bed, holding each other in the darkness. When Melbourne presented himself in her bedchamber, he was treated to the sight of Victoria's creamy shoulders and cleavage prettily displayed against rose-pink silk. Her choice of nightdress signaled her intent, yet he was reluctant to impose himself if she did not feel entirely well.

"Please," she mouthed the word silently, and her hand drifted to his lap.

"You're not too tired, my darling?"

"I am very tired, Lord M, too tired to do…much. Rather, it will be all up to you. Can you manage, do you think?"

♛

Melbourne warmed at the memory, and his body responded in kind. Victoria giggled and lifted her head.

"Lord M, whatever are you thinking of? We've not yet dined."

He considered the matter. They were quite alone in the main part of the house. The children had remained at Windsor, so they could continue their new acquaintance with the cousins who were virtual strangers. Only Feodora's youngest was of suitable age to be playmates, but her older offspring were accustomed to entertaining their younger siblings. She and her husband lived on a meagre income, augmented by the allowance Victoria sent them.

"Best not tempt my luck, darling. You favored me last night, and the night before that gave me a memorable Christmas gift."

"Shush, you!" Victoria giggled as she struggled to a sitting position against the weight of her abdomen.

"But tonight _is_ the anniversary of the date you bestowed upon me the greatest honor of my life," Melbourne teased.

"Tonight? But Lord M, I asked you to remain at the head of my government in June of 1837," she responded in kind. Melbourne chuckled, amused at the levity which – as the past days spent with her relatives reminded him – did not come naturally to Victoria.

"That, of course, was a great honor too. But I refer to that evening we exchanged vows in this very house."

"Oh, _that_ honor was entirely mine. Do you have a gift for me?"

Melbourne had given her a dozen small gifts, small trifles he hoped she would find amusing or sentimental. His one extravagance had been a necklace he devised with the help of Garrard & Company's chief designer, and that remained in a velvet-lined box. Melbourne's income did not extend to cover the sort of lavish pieces others expected to see adorning the person of the sovereign, but fortunately he was able to draw upon some of the stones held in trust for the Crown.

"Can we ride tomorrow? I'm quite restless, being cooped up. Surely here, in the middle of the country, we will encounter no one carrying a foreign disease."

"If weather permits, and we stay to the road. The fields are sodden."

"I am not a hothouse flower, and I won't melt in a little rain," Victoria said. She rubbed her lower back, then stood and stretched. Melbourne ran his palm over the slope of her abdomen.

"I think you mixed metaphors, sweetheart. Neither do flowers melt in the rain. However, these old bones of mine feel the damp sorely. We will ride if you take mercy on me and promise we avoid any vigorous exercise."

"Very prettily said, William. As if I won't know you use yourself as an excuse to coddle me."

Melbourne thought of rebutting her statement, and generously decided against it. Victoria genuinely seemed oblivious to his age, and grew cross at any discussion of mortality. She complimented his hair, now fully silver, and only implored him to preserve the thick curls and avoid the barber's shears.

He took her hand and they walked to the window. Moonlight diffused by cloud cover and the layer of ground fog below lent an eerie luminescence, so they could see to the pond and beyond.

"Surely the night looked like this when Mrs. Shelley envisioned her monster stumbling through the wilderness," Victoria said, crossing her hands over his where they rested on her stomach.

"I thought something similar before," Melbourne told her. "Shall we retire and tell each other ghost stories? Or – I think I have an original of _The Vampyre_. Not my taste in fiction, but Caro was relentless in her acquisition of anything purporting to be written by the poet."

'The Poet' – it was a silly affectation, to avoid using George Byron's name. He bore the man no ill will, and Byron in turn had been generous to his fault, in his flamboyant public praise of the long-suffering William Lamb. _Probably Mother's influence at work_, Melbourne thought. Lady M and the poet had been fast friends, their connexion lasting far longer than the three years he was entangled with Caro.

"Yes, please. I've never read it. Lehzen and my tutors did not approve of popular novels, and insisted I only read improving works. Glenarvon was my first guilty pleasure, as a girl. Even then, young as I was, I at least had the sense to prefer Lord Avondale. Lord Ruthven was entirely too full of himself, and entirely artificial, a poseur."

"Then you took away the impression the author meant you to have."

"Caro loved you very much, even in the midst of –"

"Ah, yes, that I cannot deny. Now, however, I prefer to focus on the charms of _this_ wife. You are mistress of Brocket Hall, ma'am, you must tell them when we wish to dine."

Neatly done, Melbourne congratulated himself. He was not averse to discussing his first marriage with Victoria, and none of his confidence had been misplaced. He had overheard part of a conversation between Feodora and Princess Maria, at the very moment Victoria joined in.

"You judge her too harshly. Society here is not as close-minded as that in the German principalities. Caroline was a kind-hearted soul, good to a fault to all those around her. She never bore malice, and if she had flaws she herself was the only victim. I wish I might have known her."

Melbourne had stepped back, unwilling to interrupt their tête-à-tête, but he had thrilled with the strength of his love. Victoria, as true as she was to her own principles and beliefs, had been influenced in large part by his own impressions of those who came before.

"Yes, husband, I will advise the butler we will dine in thirty minutes. In the meantime, please take me outside. I want to breathe fresh air, and then step back into the warmth of the Hall."

Melbourne wrapped her shawl securely, then opened his own coat to draw her against the warmth of his chest. They went out onto the wet flagstones, stepping carefully where rainwater had collected in pools.

"It is so peaceful here. I feel as though I can breathe deeply!" Victoria exclaimed, inhaling deeply. Then she turned to face him, her face glowing. "Darling, our child is due in March. Around the date of your own birth. If at all possible, I would like to retreat to Brocket then, so your son or daughter can draw its first breath in your home."

Melbourne considered the impossible notion. The Queen would, must, give birth attended by a whole phalanx of physicians and midwives. She would be in a specially arranged medical suite within Palace walls, whilst the Lord Privy Seal and Home Secretary waited in an anteroom. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and said nothing. They stood in silence for a time, Victoria warm and safe in the circle of his arms.

"Shall we go in?" he asked finally, not so much on account of the ache in his back and another, traveling up through his legs from proximity to the cold damp stones, as out of concern she would catch a chill.

"I haven't thanked you properly, for interceding with the doctors so I could be with the family for Christmas," she said as they went inside.

Melbourne felt a pang of guilt. It had not been what he'd wanted and hoped for, but _had_ been what made her happy. They had played charades, a rowdy group, and sang German hymns around the piano. They would never be his people, Whig aristocrats who carried their own dignity elegantly clothed in graceful insouciance, their intellect expressed only indirectly, in whimsical light-hearted conversation. Hers, in contrast, wore their dignity like armor and wielded their pious propriety like a weapon. Victoria, his darling, his precious girl, occupied a place exactly in between. She was serious-minded and careful in her relationship with God, as well as her subjects and courtiers. But for him, _with_ him, she had taught herself to be more tolerant, less judgmental, and entirely able to laugh and play, to unbend and permit her natural charm to shine through.

What gave him a qualm was her reversion to type, when surrounded by this side of her family. He wanted to keep her thoroughly his, and through him, thoroughly English. Of their children, Liam was more serious, more burdened by that mantle of something _heavy_. Lily was entirely English, and her irreverent, exuberant charm entirely a Lamb trait.

He shook off those errant notions, and grudgingly admitted to himself – and to the strong-willed, independent women who had guided him – that he had been at fault in attempting to manipulate circumstances. Victoria wanted to spend Christmas with her family, and he would have denied her that right to choose. In the end, he could not usurp her authority, not as queen but as a free, sentient being. She loved him no less, during that time with her family, and it would have been unspeakably foolish to deny her.

"Happy anniversary, Mrs. Melbourne," he whispered, handing off her shawl to a waiting footman.

"Happy anniversary, Lord M," she replied, turning her face up to his.

_The Vampyre was actually written by John William Polidori in 1816, but the first edition was erroneously attributed to George Byron. _


	24. Chapter 24

_Princess Feodora of Leiningen, Victoria's half-sister_

* * *

The morning of their return dawned miraculously clear. A brisk wind did much to dry puddles in the road, and bright winter sun warmed the inside of the carriage.

Victoria felt fine, and the memory of recent sickness caused her to savor the sense of well-being. _It was good to get away and rest at dear Brocket Hall with my love_, she thought. _And now, it will be good to return to my dear Feodora waiting at Windsor; who could ask for anything more?_ She smiled, imagining the hours and days ahead, making memories to soften the inevitable sting of parting. _Feodora, my own darling, only sister, my dear excellent, noble Feodora! How wonderful and reassuring it is, to have someone near my own age, someone who has known me all of my life! _

When Feodora married a much-older man she had only met twice before the wedding, Victoria remembered believing that her own heart would break at their separation. Feodora had tried to console her, but could not hide her relief at leaving the closely regimented Kensington household behind. "My only happy time was driving out with you and our dear Baroness Lehzen," she had written much later. "When we could speak and look as we liked".

_And now we have a whole month to ourselves! _They would go to the opera, and see plays – most respectable, of course, none of the popular light-hearted theatricals she and William sometimes enjoyed, lest her husband disapprove.

Victoria's mind went to her nieces and nephews, six of them born during Feodora's eighteen-year marriage to the Prince. She would like to share more intimate confidences with her sister, discuss the same things her ladies talked over in whispers, but when they were together her courage failed. Prince Ernst was a good man and Feodora claimed she was happy but Victoria could not imagine her stern unsmiling brother-in-law engaging in the same martial pleasures she and William shared. He did his duty, of course; proof of that were the three sons and three daughters under the roof of Windsor Castle. But to think of he and dear Feodora – no! Her mind rejected the notion.

Their last evening at Brocket Hall Victoria had felt entirely herself again, for the first time since her sickness began. In the light of day, she might have blushed at what she remembered, if she had not been alone in the carriage with William.

He had lain with his arms crossed behind his head, wearing that small secret grin, and allowed her to _have her way with him_, as he put it. Victoria had used her lips and tongue and slippery secret places, and when he was ready she had straddled him. The position made her feel wanton and strong, indomitable in her own femininity. _He_ remained passive and detached as long as he could, but when he surrendered his control it set her own loins on fire.

She gazed at him now, asleep with his head tipped back against the wall of the carriage. Someone had once used _senatorial_ to describe his countenance, that strong Roman nose and sensuous lips. The expression on those beautiful features was always gently nonchalant in company, as though contemplating some private amusement; he could, on occasion, be solemn, even stern, and always, _always_ when he looked at her it was with infinite tenderness. But only rarely did she see _him_ in utterly lost in the throes of carnal passion. When she made love to him and assumed the superior position, at the end he showed her another face, inward-looking and intense and suddenly _wild_. Victoria thought of it as _hers_, that face, although surely he had shown it to others. When she asked, in that secret language of lovers, he only ever answered one way. _Never, my darling, has it been like this. Only you, my precious girl._

With her family he was witty and charming, and in doing so showed her yet another face. _That_, she knew, was the Lord Melbourne society saw, a smooth debonair masquerade. He was never anyone but himself at his core, but Victoria thrilled to this glimpse of the _other_, the public Melbourne who was a stranger to her.

He was not at ease with her family, she knew, any more than she herself felt at ease with Emily. Adine was her own age, from an Austrian family with customs not so very different than her own. But Emily, dearest to Melbourne's heart, was part of that earlier, more exciting Regency generation. Victoria might be queen, but it did her little good when in the presence of her husband's possessive, _im_pressive sister. Then she reverted to awkward adolescence, never quite measuring up.

Victoria thought often of her mother's words, meant as reassurance. _How do you think it was for me, coming to this country as a widow and new wife? One makes allowances when blending two families. _As much as she wanted Lord M's undivided attention, wishing they could exist in a world made for two, she knew she must share him with others. Her own effort to make herself agreeable to his sister allowed her to recognize and appreciate his own performance with hers even more.

Bright sunlight seemed to caress his features, making Victoria wish she could do the same. His hat was on the seat beside him and the carriage jolted just enough to convince her she must stay in her place. She contented herself with touching his knee, fingering the fold in his trousers. Even so slight a touch awakened that spark between then, not sexual passion but something more. It made Victoria think of a lecture Albert had once hosted, when an electrical spark jumped between two adjacent poles even without the metal touching. _Like that_, she had thought at the time. _It's exactly like that with William and me._

♛

Two weeks' absence might have been two days, for all the difference it made. They were welcomed by servants in Household livery, standing in a line. Victoria acknowledged each curtsy and bow, then ran lightly up the stairway where her family was waiting. Not all of them, of course; it was no ceremonial occasion, but Mama and Feodora stood side by side, and Baroness Lehzen with the children.

Victoria crouched and swept both children into her arms, kissing and stroking their hair. Her mother beamed, and opened her arms, and Victoria embraced her before turning to Feodora. They kissed, and Victoria beamed as Melbourne embraced the Duchess with one arm, Lily held firmly in the other, and bowed over her sister's hand.

They separated then, Melbourne's attention claimed by his secretary and aide.

"And so it begins," he murmured, setting Lily on her feet. Victoria understood. He would read the Queen's speech for her on 19 January 1847, but before that he would meet with each cabinet member and a handful of key Members, each with a bill or writ to press. She had complete confidence in his judgment and, even more, that he would not usurp her authority. It still gave her a brief, sharp sense of disappointment, that a new legislative session would commence without her presence or overt involvement.

Melbourne had told her that in the previous century, while common sense and practicality still prevailed, women rarely left society before they were necessarily confined by childbirth. The Duchess of Devonshire had actually gone into labor during a card party, and declined to leave the table until she had successfully recouped her losses. His own mother had been on her feet and entertaining at home when her own newborns were little more than a week old.

Alas, times had changed, and not necessarily for the better. Matters related to conception and birth were not recognized by polite society. _As though_, she thought, _men and women had not been laying together since the beginning of time, as God Himself designed it, and children were not the inevitable result of that coupling. It hardly renders us incapable of other things._

The court was to return to Buckingham Palace, where her ladies-in-waiting and maids of honor would again assume duty rotation. They would again be surrounded by equerries and other honor attendants.

"Leopold has asked Carl to travel to Claremont and inspect the house," the Duchess had informed Victoria. "Maria and the boys will remain here, and he will take Ernst with him."

"Claremont? Why? Is Uncle planning a trip to England?"

The Duchess leaned forward conspiratorially.

"I think it is in readiness for Louis-Phillipe," she said. Victoria lifted a brow in surprise.

"Is there more unrest in France?"

"Is there ever _not_ unrest in France? The canaille think because they made him king, they can unmake him again," her mother said, echoing a sentiment Melbourne had once expressed in another context. "And if it comes to that, Louis wisely prefers that his head remain attached to his shoulders."

Victoria didn't see Melbourne again until dinner. He had not yet come to change when she went down, and when he strode into the drawing room full of apologies, a tiny fleck of shaving soap was still visible at the edge of his jaw.

After they dined, when the gentlemen rejoined, he was still deep in conversation with her brother, a circumstance Victoria viewed with warm satisfaction.

"Your brother is interested German politics," Melbourne confided much later, as he removed his slippers. "He thinks if he resigns his commission in the Bavarian army, he has a role to play when a new provisional government is formed in Frankfurt."

"Carl has political ambitions?" Victoria was surprised, remembering the supercilious sneering her family had shown Lord M in the early days because he was a _politician_.

"He considers he might make a difference and have a hand in guiding the direction they will take. And that the Archduke might be disposed to look on him with favor, because of his connexion to the English Crown. I can't say he's wrong. The Constitution was a hard-won thing and the Emperor views more radical republicans with understandable suspicion."

Victoria moved over just enough to permit him to settle himself beneath the covers. Then she squirmed back to her accustomed place, head pillowed on his chest.

"Mmmm," she whispered. "Nice."

"Tomorrow I go ahead to London, and will stay at Carlton House Terrace," Melbourne said against her hair, the words muffled.

"Why not Buckingham Palace? _Home_?" Victoria asked, feeling vaguely peeved at his plan to stay with his sister.

"'Home' when you and the children are there, my little love. The Court is not expected back until the following day and everything will be at sixes and sevens. And I've promised Em I will attend her dinner. She's having a few young up-and-comers who've expressed a desire to meet me."

Victoria's feet wormed their way between Melbourne's shins, and her arm went around his waist. She entertained the idea of reaching lower, but stopped herself. _This is perfect, just as we are_, she thought. Melbourne's deep voice rumbled as he talked in the low tones reserved for their bedchamber. He discussed the week's appointments, and the calls he would make in Whitehall.

"Warburton will reopen the question of murder of Sikh prisoners of war. Fox Maule wrote Lord Gough, who informed him that a court of inquiry was held. Alas, the rumors persist in some quarters."

"Let me know what the Earl Grey has to say about it," Victoria said softly in return. "Please convey my concern, and my express desire to be kept informed. The murder of unarmed men in our custody makes us seem little more than the bloodthirsty barbarians we accuse them of being. And do inquire about Jind Kaur. We've heard nothing since she sent us that absurd marriage proposal last winter."

"As you say, ma'am," Melbourne answered smoothly, pushing her long hair back. "Will you do well without me for a day or two, until you come up to London?"

"You know I won't, Lord M. But it seems for the next few months I'll be little more than a prisoner in the Tower, at least so far as my public role is concerned. Mama and I will take Feodora to the theatre, but I would like you to accompany us to the opera. Surely in a private box, there can be nothing inappropriate about my presence."

They went on like that, discussing the minutiae of his schedule and her substantially lighter one. Melbourne stroked her hair, her shoulders and back, running his fingers lightly over her skin, until she thought she might purr with pleasure. She had nearly fallen asleep before she remembered.

"I forgot to say my prayers," she said, hastily decamping to kneel beside the bed. She could not rest without that last rite, and would not, if she could. _I have too much to be grateful for_, Victoria thought as she bowed her head and prayed.

* * *

_Prince Carl of Leiningen, Victoria's half-brother_


	25. Chapter 25

_Today we went to the Lyceum Theatre for a special matinee performance, Feodora and her girls, Minny and Fanny and theirs. I was incognito, of course. I doubt my veil did much to disguise my identity, but it was enough of a hint that no undue fuss was made. Lily was delighted to be in the company of her Lamb cousins. Lady Mary Charlotte Ashley-Cooper was born in July of 1842, my Lily in August and the Hon. Victoria Alexandrina Jocelyn, called Vee, in September. Feodora's youngest daughter is four years older, close enough to the age of Minny's elder Vicky, that I hoped the two might become friends._

_The drama was from Mr. Dickens' Christmas story, and the pantomime, by Mr. Stoquelar, was the favorite old tale of "The Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast." We might have invited the troupe to perform for us here, but going out to the Lyceum in the afternoon was an especial treat._

Victoria laid aside her pen and closed the inkwell lid. She fastened the latch on her journal and turned a miniature key in the lock. Her back ached from remaining in the same position too long, whether sitting or standing, only one more, admittedly minor, inconvenience. _The worst of it_, she thought, _is that I have so little to write about at day's end_! She wondered how ordinary women filled their days and kept their minds active. Morning visits filled by gossip with one's friends, she supposed. Afternoons with one's lover, for some, or good works for those of charitable inclination. _But what on earth does one _talk_ about, if one does nothing of interest?_

Not all women, she knew. There were those, like her own sister-in-law, who had carved out a niche in the greater world. _Petticoat diplomacy_, Lord Palmerston called his wife's longstanding interest in cultivating friendships with some of the most influential men in Europe. Or Princess Lieven, or Caroline Norton, or Miss Emily Eden. Thinking of these women and the example they set, Victoria felt some consolation, swiftly replaced by self-doubt. _Could I have done as they did? _Victoria wondered. _No,_ was the sad answer. _I am not like them_. _I am shy and tongue-tied in company_ _and I have neither charm nor savoir faire._

_If I were not who I am, doubtless I would be like Feodora, old before my time, sober, pious and uninteresting, wed to some stateless prince with neither charm nor position. William would never have noticed me, had our paths crossed_.

Victoria pushed back her chair and stood, determined to shake off her ennui. Melbourne had been gone nearly every day for a week. He dined in town, with Lord This and The Honorable That, deftly balancing his time between every party, not only Whigs and Conservatives but Irish Repealers, Reformers and even, on one memorable occasion, with the socialist Mr. Harney. Harney, a leading Chartist, was married to Billy Cameron's sister Mary, and had recently stood against Lord Palmerston in a clumsily rigged election.

"On your behalf, ma'am, and to listen only. The Crown is impartial and owes a hearing to all Her Majesty's subjects," Melbourne had retorted smoothly, and Victoria's desire to express herself further fell to the tickling sensation of his teeth nibbling her ear lobe.

The walls of Buckingham Palace were thick and little sound carried from one chamber to another. Victoria, restless, wanted only a change of scenery when she left her own small study and wandered into Melbourne's far cozier, pleasantly cluttered, sitting room.

"You're here!" she exclaimed, startled.

Melbourne's expression was curiously sheepish. In shirtsleeves and braces, he had been pacing back and forth, speaking aloud.

"As you see," he muttered, laying paper he was holding aside.

"What are you doing?" Victoria asked.

"Preparing," Melbourne responded, clearing his throat. "Dammit, practicing. I've told you, I am no orator."

The Queen's Speech, Victoria realized. He _had_ told her, time and again, that he was an indifferent speaker and had only rarely addressed Parliament. It seemed improbable, if not impossible, that a man so entirely at his ease conversing in company, who could discourse at great length on the most eclectic topics, whose nonchalance was legendary and whose wit never failed to charm anyone in earshot, could feel such anxiety at the prospect of delivering a prepared speech.

"I've been over it so many times I have the damned thing committed to memory, but when I stand before the Lords and Commons tomorrow I'll mumble and drone and lose my way."

Victoria wondered what she could say. This was _Melbourne_, Lord M, and she could not reconcile his poor self-regard with the man she knew better than any.

His small sitting room was half the size of their bedchamber. Melbourne had filled it to overflowing with the detritus of a well-lived life. Books filled the shelves on three walls, with more in towering stacks on the floor and still others on every flat surface. A half-hearted attempt had been made to organize his voluminous correspondence –Melbourne received ten times as many letters as he could answer – but half-filled sheets, begun and abandoned, littered the surface of his desk. A small curling feather, neither decorative nor functional, rested beside his inkwell. Victoria had once heard the story of his blowing a feather about as he tried to attend to some pretentious delegation, and had been so delighted by the image that ever after she made sure a small remnant of that quintessential _Melbourne_ irreverence was at hand.

"May I come and hear you? Incognito, of course," she added the last, thinking of Caro in a page's suit sneaking into the gallery to hear his first speech.

"Dressed as a page?" Victoria met his grin with one of her own, entirely unsurprised that he had read her thoughts.

"I doubt whether it would be an effective disguise," she answered, stroking her pregnant abdomen. "Perhaps as a clerk who tends to gluttony."

"Neither," Melbourne said firmly. "There is a ladies' gallery, if you insist on witnessing my public humiliation. A simple veil will suffice. Emily will attend, and can accompany you. She intends to be anonymous, at Palmerston's urging."

"Gladly. I am so very bored, and _boring_. It's little wonder you don't come home until I am in bed."

"You're never boring _there_, ma'am." Victoria tried and failed to show her annoyance, melting inside at the boyish expression on his handsome face.

"You are flirting with me, Lord M, and it's very nice. But I _was_ being serious. I do nothing, see no one of importance and have nothing of interest to talk about when I do see you. I can't abide inactivity, and there are only so many children's performances I can endure, only so many menus to approve."

"You read every dispatch, and advise me quite astutely on the responses I must give."

He was so much taller than her, that he dipped his head to meet her eyes and Victoria was once more charmed despite herself.

"Your hair is quite long again. Must you go under the barber's shears?" She finger-combed his thick silver hair, winding one curl around her finger and pulling, then did the same with the sideburns which framed his face.

"I should, lest my appearance only detract further from my dignity. There, you see, you've managed to distract me from my anxiety. It's dark already, but the night air is mild. Will you walk with me on the terrace?"

Rather than go back to her own apartment to fetch a shawl Victoria slid her arms into the black frock coat Melbourne had worn that day. He pulled his dressing gown over his shirt and took her hand.

The terrace ran the length of the private wing, some twenty feet wide and several hundred feet long. They strolled nearly the entire length, turned and walked back the way they had come. Once, twice, three times around, and Victoria felt the tension drain away with exertion.

"I wish I could ride!" she said wistfully. "Or even walk out briskly, without everyone fluttering about as though I were some fragile hothouse flower."

"Only a few more months, my love. This summer we will spend an entire month at Brocket, and you may ride astride to your heart's content, away from the eyes of the world."

Victoria was an excellent horsewoman, but consigned by decorum and propriety to ride side-saddle in a cumbersome habit where she might be seen. Riding astride in buckskin trousers and boots was her secret indulgence, in the privacy of their country estate.

"We went to a play today," she offered. "It was quite nice, actually, or would have been if it had not been the highlight of my week. Such recreation is only enjoyable when it is a break from real, meaningful work. I am not made for a life of idle indulgence, I think."

"You _think?_" Melbourne laughed. "I _know_. It's this damned new age. When I was young, ladies –"

"What?" Victoria prodded.

"I sound quite awfully old, don't I? 'When I was young'. Never mind, it was a different time then, without all this false piety and prudishness. Women were not hidden away as though procreation were something shameful. Never mind. Tell me about your play. Who accompanied you?"

"Fanny and Minny and their girls, and Fee. Do you know what she said to me? Feodora, I mean? I called her _Fee_, and she scolded me for it. She said I've changed and become quite _English_. Giving nicknames, she told me, is a very _English_ thing to do. Of course I am English! My dear Papa made me so, and brought Mama home to England so I would be born on this soil."

Melbourne's comfortable silence encouraged her to continue.

"Feodora has changed, and not for the better," Victoria said, choosing her words with care. "Of course she grew up at Kensington, under Sir John's rule, and left to marry an awful old man. Well," she hastily added. "I do not know that he was awful, precisely, and have no reason to think he was unkind, but he was _old_, and looked grumpy even at their wedding. And then he took her back to that draughty old crumbling Schloss Langenburg and gave her six children and little time or money to – oh, I do go on. Pray, excuse me. I should not speak so of my poor dear sister, only – when I see Fanny and Minny, so stylish and gay and light-hearted, and Feodora – she is so _good_, and virtuous and careful, but I can't think she is _happy_. Perhaps she isn't _unhappy, _but –"

Victoria closed her mouth with a pop and walked faster, finding a rhythm in arms and legs which made her heart beat faster.

"I am not precisely like the girls, like your nieces, although I sometimes _wish_ I was, but I am not like Feodora either."

"You are you, my darling girl. You are earnest and have a good mind, but I think, I hope, that you are not afraid of enjoyment either. I would speak no ill of your sister, but she is _very_ serious and solemn. One associates that disdain of frivolity with English Calvinism, yet it seems to appear with great frequency in some of your European relations."

"Not Uncle Leopold, thankfully," Victoria said, aware that she sounded almost defensive. "Or Mama. And not me, I hope."

"No, my love. Not Leopold and not your mother, and certainly not you. You are exactly as you ought to be – _you_. My perfect, precious girl. Now – listen –"

_"My Lords, and Gentlemen, on Behalf of Her Most Gracious Majesty, It is with the deepest Concern that upon your again assembling Her Majesty wishes to call your Attention to the Dearth of Provisions which prevails in Ireland and in Parts of Scotland – " _Victoria could have mouthed each word in unison; she had written the speech, incorporating Lord John's legislative agenda with her own priority concerns. Instead, she gripped Melbourne's hand and concentrated on walking, faster and faster while his voice lost its weak, tremulous note and took on a more familiar cadence.

_"In Ireland especially the Loss of the usual Food of the People has been the Cause of severe Sufferings, of Disease, and of greatly increased Mortality among the poorer Classes. Outrages –" _Victoria heard her own breath coming faster, felt the pleasurable burn in her calves as her swifter paces struggled to keep up with Melbourne's long-legged stride.

_"-_ _full Conviction that your Discussions will be guided by an impartial Spirit, and in the Hope that the present Sufferings of My People may be lightened, and that their future Condition may be improved, by your deliberative Wisdom."_

They were both panting when he finished with a vocal flourish, and collapsed against each other laughing.

"Very good, Lord M!" Victoria gasped, struggling to regain some semblance of propriety. They stood by the balustrade, in full view of anyone who might happen past one of the gallery windows.

"Ma'am, you are quite disheveled," he observed when he was able to speak.

"As are you, Lord Melbourne." Victoria giggled, snapping the braces fastened to his trousers. "This is _not_ the Court uniform. Will you race me back?"

Without waiting for an answer, she lifted her skirts and ran pell mell toward their distant door.

♛

_ **19 January 1847** _

** _THE PARLIAMENT met this day for the Despatch of Business. The Session was opened by the Queen, in the Person of her Consort, His Grace the Duke of Melbourne. Standing beside the Throne, and the Commons being at the Bar, with their Speaker, His Grace was pleased to have delivered the following most Gracious Speech on behalf and at the behest of Her Majesty:_ **

** _"My Lords, and Gentlemen,_ **

** _"It is with the deepest Concern that upon your again assembling I have to call your Attention to the Dearth of Provisions which prevails in Ireland and in Parts of Scotland._ **

** _"In Ireland especially the Loss of the usual Food of the People has been the Cause of severe Sufferings, of Disease, and of greatly increased Mortality among the poorer Classes. Outrages have become more frequent, chiefly directed against Property; and the Transit of Provisions has been rendered unsafe in some Parts of the Country._ **

** _"With a view to mitigate these Evils, very large Numbers of Men have been employed, and received Wages, in pursuance of an Act passed in the last Session of Parliament. Some Deviations from that Act, which have been authorized by the Lord Lieutenant in order to promote more useful Employment, will, I trust, receive your Sanction. Means have been taken to lessen the Pressure of Want in Districts which are most remote from the ordinary Sources of Supply. Outrages have been repressed, as far as it was possible, by the Military and Police._ **

** _"It is satisfactory to Me to observe, that in many of the most distressed Districts the Patience and Resignation of the People have been most exemplary._ **

** _"The Deficiency of the Harvest in France and Germany, and other Parts of Europe, has added to the Difficulty of obtaining adequate Supplies of Provisions._ **

** _"It will be your Duty to consider what further Measures are required to alleviate the existing Distress. I recommend to you to take into your serious Consideration whether, by increasing for a limited Period the Facilities for importing Corn from Foreign Countries, and by the Admission of Sugar more freely into Breweries and Distilleries, the Supply of Food may be beneficially augmented._ **

** _"I have likewise to direct your earnest Consideration to the permanent Condition of Ireland. You will perceive, in the Absence of Political Excitement, an Opportunity for taking a dispassionate Survey of the social Evils which afflict that Part of the United Kingdom. Various Measures will be laid before you, which, if adopted by Parliament, may tend to raise the great Mass of People in Comfort, to promote Agriculture, and to lessen the Pressure of that Competition for Land which has been the fruitful Source of Crime and Misery._ **

** _"The Marriage of the Infanta Luisa Fernanda of Spain to the Duke of Montpensier has given rise to a Correspondence between My Government and those of France and Spain._ **

** _"The Extinction of the Free State of Cracow has appeared to Me to be so manifest a Violation of the Treaty of Vienna that I have commanded that a Protest against that Act should be delivered to the Courts of Vienna, Petersburg, and Berlin, which were Parties to it. Copies of these several Papers will be laid before you._ **

** _"I entertain confident Hopes that the Hostilities in the River Plate which have so long interrupted Commerce may soon be terminated, and My Efforts, in conjunction with those of the King of the French, will be earnestly directed to that End._ **

** _"My Relations generally with Foreign Powers inspire Me with the fullest Confidence in the Maintenance of Peace._ **

** _"Gentlemen of the House of Commons,_ **

** _"I have directed the Estimates to be prepared with a view to provide for the Efficiency of the Public Service with a due Regard for Economy._ **

** _"My Lords, and Gentlemen,_ **

** _"I have ordered every requisite Preparation to be made for putting into Operation the Act of the last Session of Parliament for the Establishment of Local Courts for the Recovery of Small Debts. It is My Hope that the Enforcement of Civil Rights in all Parts of the Country to which the Act relates may, by this Measure, be materially facilitated._ **

** _"I recommend to your Attention Measures which will be laid before you for improving the Health of Towns, an Object the Importance of which you will not fail to appreciate._ **

** _"Deeply sensible of the Blessings which, after a Season of Calamity, have been so often vouchsafed to this Nation by a superintending Providence, I confide these important Matters to your Care, in a full Conviction that your Discussions will be guided by an impartial Spirit, and in the Hope that the present Sufferings of My People may be lightened, and that their future Condition may be improved, by your deliberative Wisdom."_ **

** _His Grace then retired, and the House adjourned."_ **

Victoria, suitably veiled and clothed in a plain grey serge gown and capelet, sat back at the end of the speech, too overcome for words. She was aware of Emily beside her, likewise silent. Had she been asked, she would have said that it was no more than relief and natural conjugal pride she felt. Melbourne had acquitted himself well, standing tall – refusing out of hand any suggestion that he would sit, if not on the Throne itself then on the slightly lower chair he would have occupied, if she herself had been present.

"I will stand, as I did when I was a Minister," he had said, to the Chancellor and Lord John Russell, and to Victoria, privately. "I am no Prince Consort, nor have I pretensions."

And yet – ah, and yet, Victoria thought, her heart singing, he had worn a mantle of graceful dignity, more apparent for the lack of any ceremonial garb. A simple black suit, with the jeweled Cross of her own Victorian Order his only adornment, yet more distinguished than any king. _No king_, but the father of kings, who, God willing, will reign into the next century and beyond.

_And mine_, Victoria's inner voice continued. _All mine, this wondrous man. Through him, I have everything and he, through me and the children I bear, will live forever._


	26. Chapter 26

The thing was done, his duty discharged, and Melbourne was eager to put it behind him. Reading the Queen's Speech on her behalf, during her temporary retreat from public engagements, while not pleasant, had not been nearly as difficult as having to put forth his own argument on some contentious bill.

Then, it was only when the nature of the question before the House and the duties of the office he held imposed on him the necessity of speaking that he rose to express his own views. Once it was incumbent upon him to do so, Melbourne opted for plain speaking in place of soaring rhetoric capable of stirring the emotions. Like Earl Grey, he had relied upon the justness and expediency of his case and would not have, if he could, make any ingenious or sophistical speech in their support. He had, in his rare speeches to the House, laid out the consequences of a rejection of whatever measure would be voted upon and then left the honorable Members to act as they thought proper.

General principals and high-flown ideals had never been Melbourne's forte in either public or private arena. When he quoted from the Greeks or Romans, or from a modern author of celebrity, it was done in the same offhand way as common proverbs were made use of in conversation by the humbler classes of society. He had no wish to make a parade of scholarship, and would have been mortified at the suggestion he did so for effect. 

Melbourne's driving motivation in public affairs had always been the stability of the Crown and the welfare of the nation. What had changed, of course, was that now the Crown rested on the head of his heart and soul, and the fair-haired boy born to rule was his own flesh and blood son.

Lord John Russell, was the first to congratulate him afterwards. Melbourne answered the Premier's expression of satisfaction with his habitual dry wit.

"My first tutor said something similar, in praise of my ability to read."

Little Johnny was a firebrand in opposition, but Melbourne was skeptical of his efficacy at leading a government. _Time will tell,_ he thought, turning to the next man in line.

Most of the freshmen Members were unfamiliar at first glance and by their stiff bows and tight-lipped formal salutation he assumed most of them knew him only by name and the position he held. _I'm one of _them_ now, _Melbourne acknowledged privately, remembering the curious mix of reverence and contempt with which he and his colleagues had viewed the constitutional monarch in whose name they governed. _Reverence for the Crown, contempt for the person who wore it, never particularly interesting or accomplished, rarely with even moderate understanding, and with far too great a desire to meddle in affairs of state._

He made his way down the line of those waiting to shake his hand or, in some cases, curtsy or bow. It mattered little to him which form they chose. Some of the most radical revolutionaries became awe-struck in the presence of Royalty – even Royalty once removed – and the most ardent Conservatives might opt for an egalitarian salutation.

The small talk required on such occasions, which Victoria considered an arduous task, came easily to Melbourne. He could draw upon long experience and wide social contacts to make some apt comment on a constituency, a family connection or personal accomplishment that left each person to whom he spoke feeling quite gratified by the encounter.

"Well done, William, well done indeed."

Melbourne had only just exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Poulett Scrope, a rural magistrate and, more interestingly, a noted geologist. The feminine voice which called out to him was low-pitched for a female, with swooping theatrical intonation that came naturally as part of her Sheridan heritage.

Next in line, standing beside Sidney Herbert, was Caroline Norton. Her statuesque figure dwarfed that of Sidney's new wife, and she made no effort to diminish her height by slouching self-effacement. All in all, Melbourne thought, a striking woman and one it was impossible not to notice.

"Thank you," Melbourne answered smoothly, extending his hand. She shook and released it, making no attempt to prolong the brief interaction. Curious and – if he were ruthlessly honest with himself, just slightly miffed – Melbourne met her black eyes squarely and was mollified by the open friendliness just tinged by old affection he saw there.

No more was said; he exchanged a few words to Herbert about the coming term and moved on. After Russell had taken him past everyone entitled to recognition of some sort, they went into an antechamber where refreshments had been laid out for those invited to an informal reception. Had Victoria been present, she would have gone first to her robing chamber to divest herself of the Crown and Robes of State. Melbourne sauntered in and accepted a glass of indifferent wine, emptying it thirstily.

"Was it terribly frightening? Or does it get easier, with the weight of your new dignities to steady you?"

Caroline had lost no time in finding him despite the crush, and Melbourne mentally debated whether to rebuff her. _So long as she behaves herself and doesn't cause a scene_, he decided, _there's no need to brush her off. Surely, after all this time she's accepted what _was_ is not what _is, _or ever can be again_. Victoria had done so, for which he was grateful, and he had no wish to stir up old resentments in either of them.

"Her Majesty was gracious enough to invite me to meet with her, as I'm sure you know. She seems to find merit in at least some of my proposals to reform the Child Custody Laws."

Melbourne shrugged off the instinct which warned him to parse this woman's every word for hidden meaning. He only inclined his head in an attitude of noncommittal listening.

"Unfortunately neither of you is particularly progressive, but then neither am I in general. Certainly neither Her Majesty or I am in favor of the rights Mary Wollstonecraft advocated. Her Majesty, however, expressed concern about the inherent lack of fairness and equity which forms a part of the reforms I hope to see."

Caroline, if she did not shout, did not lower her voice and Melbourne wondered whether that was a good or a bad thing under the circumstances. Better they carry on their conversation quite audibly, in the midst of this daytime crowd of Parliamentary members and visitors, than give the appearance of any clandestine tête-à-tête.

"Her Majesty is indeed interested in anything which imposes undue and unfair hardship on any of her subjects," Melbourne answered, choosing his words carefully to avoid misrepresenting Victoria.

"It'll be no easy thing, and society is changing but slowly," Caroline replied. "Yet having the support of the queen for the heart of the matter, even if she cannot endorse specific legislation publicly, is a boon. And…" she slowly blinked with a vestige of her old seductiveness. "She was open to meeting with me one-on-one, which suggests that the old animosity has lessened over time."

Melbourne studied her face, the handsome features he knew so well. Her distinctive vivacity was still there but tempered with, perhaps, weariness or sorrow, or just the weight of a decade filled with mostly self-imposed turmoil.

"You came with Sidney Herbert. His wife does not object?" Melbourne knew his question was one an old friend might ask, and would break down the artificially stiff barrier between them he had so carefully constructed.

"She does not know. Sidney had to marry, and so long as George insists on remaining my husband I cannot." Caroline shrugged, a beguiling girlish gesture in one so decidedly a woman. "Our connection remains, but I feel his interest waning."

"Find someone to marry you, to whom George cannot object. So long as he knows your heart is not engaged, and if you go about it the right way in appealing to him, we can show him his advantage lies in granting you a divorce."

"Do you have that much influence, William? Truly?" Her tone was openly skeptical, even mocking.

"I think I do," he told her quietly. "A title and a modest settlement for him, and he can remarry also. There's as much in it for him, to let go of this farcical enmity."

"And perhaps I could even befriend my sons, before they become men and come to me on their own?" Melbourne knew from her flat delivery, that she didn't believe such a thing was possible.

"No, William, I've made my path and I will walk it. I will be the very colorful, notorious Mrs. Norton and take lovers from amongst the young men seeking to make a name for themselves in my bed. Italy is kinder and more forgiving; Sardinia and Portugal have artists' colonies where I am welcomed."

Melbourne thought those arresting dark eyes looked almost unbearably wistful, but just for a moment. Then they grew hard and bright again, and when she smiled he saw new creases at their corners.

"But I am glad if we can be friends again. You are still the most desirable man of my acquaintance but that's in the past, and I am content it remain so. We've shared so much history, you and I. You shared your dilemma about what to do with Susan, after Caro died, and you came to me to forget your grief when Augustus died. We were _friends_, and that's so much better than lovers in the end. It's so very _comfortable_ to have one person who truly knows you, your past and your pains and what made you the person you are. _You_ may have others who fit that bill, although I doubt it – men rarely share confidences with other men, do they? – but I have only you, who knew me as the girl I was. Georgy and Nell, of course, God bless them, but sisters see one differently."

"Perhaps we'll see each other again in company," Melbourne said, suddenly awkward. A sunny Monday in January, in the heart of Westminster, was hardly the time or place for such emotional declarations, benign though they might be.

"Perhaps. I will go back to the Continent in spring, I think, but I will be in England until then. A winter Channel crossing is not to my taste. Goodbye, William. I will not pester you for an invitation, but do relay my felicitations to Her Majesty, and my prayers that she be safely delivered. When is the royal infant due?"

"Mid-March," Melbourne said, already half-turned away. Instantly Caroline's eyes lit up with amusement.

"Your birthday, William? Let it be so. No man has ever deserved an encore more than you, my dear friend." She reached for his hand and he gave it, thinking she would shake it but instead she swiftly, daringly raised it to her lips. Then she released him and turned away, so swiftly he felt the breeze from her skirts.

♛

"Was it terribly frightening, Papa? When Black Rod pounded on the door? When the gentlemen all came in at once?"

Melbourne stroked the boy's silky hair. Liam had accompanied Victoria and Emily, along with only a single female detective and one equerry. All three ladies had been veiled and modestly gowned and Liam's distinctive curls hidden under an oversized cap. Melbourne had not seen them – a carved wooden screen concealed the small mezzanine-level Ladies' Gallery – but he had known they were there.

Reading from a carefully prepared speech composed by others had, at the least, given Melbourne no opportunity to lose his place, casting about for some errant thought or other, and if he had no soaring rhetoric, no swoops and pitches to stir the emotion of his listeners, neither had he stuttered as badly as he was wont to do when forced to deliver his own words. _Unfortunate_ _in a way_, he thought, lifting his son onto his knee. Perhaps if the little prince had witnessed his own father stammering it might have relieved the painful self-consciousness which gripped him on those occasions he was required to speak before strangers.

"Black Rod pounds on the door to the Commons as part of the ceremony, my boy. The Members of that House slam the doors as to deny the sovereign entry."

"Because the King once had them all arrested? Did he chop off their heads?"

Lily pushed her way into Melbourne's embrace, eager to share in his attention. Her brother complacently made room for her and even helped her to climb onto their papa's lap.

_No; rather, the King's head was cut off in the end_, was hardly a tale he could tell these two little ones.

"And even Mama could not enter their chamber, if she chose?"

"Not on that day, when she is there to open Parliament. On any other day the Members would have to invite her, which I'm sure they would be pleased to do if she asked nicely."

Melbourne looked at them as much as he listened to their words, half-hoping they would not be interrupted. These children, sprung from his seed, healthy, beautiful, intelligent and blessedly _normal._ Lily's willfulness and impulsivity, Liam's shyness and that intermittent stutter, were part and parcel of who they were, and _what_ they were – perfection. His secret fear grew more remote with each of Victoria's pregnancies, that the infirmity of his elder son could have come from him and might reappear in the children Victoria bore him.

Augustus had passed away a full decade before, and time and distance provided clarity. Early on, Melbourne and Caro had seen something was amiss by the epileptic seizures which were impossible to ignore. The other indications were subtle in infancy, vague in early childhood. Their families both warned them that, if their son looked to be a well-formed boy, his mind was not right. Caro relentlessly sought out new treatments and brought a succession of physicians and tutors to Brocket Hall but Melbourne himself had been too close to realize the full extent of his son's disability. _That, and entirely too proficient at blocking out unpleasant realities_, Melbourne conceded.

He had tolerated some of the medical interventions and roundly rejected others, but had been unable to see beyond the son he _wanted_ to acknowledge the one he _had_. He had taught the boy himself, reading aloud, gently holding the boy's hand in his own to shape letters and numbers. Augustus had talked early on, volubly even, a veritable flood of speech which, if it did not always make sense, might be interpreted by a doting father. His tantrums became so frequent that Melbourne rescripted those too, telling himself that the boy was merely high strung and required patience and steadiness. Nurses fled in the night, tutors lasted scarcely a fortnight, and even the physician who lasted the longest had done so only to write a monograph later. That and, possibly, the charms of Caroline's bed had motivated him, more than any real hope of curing their child.

As Augustus grew older he became more physically powerful. Melbourne would not have him confined, so instead they retained strong young male companions to follow him about the estate. Even under their watchfulness and frequent intervention, maidservants had been molested and ran shrieking through the neighborhood. Emily had famously compared her nephew to _Frankenstein's monster_, Mary Shelley's fiend, in his inarticulate rages and the primal urges he made no attempt to control.

At the time, experienced piecemeal, the extreme myopia of proximity had desensitized Melbourne. He was patient and kind and never once lost his temper, but he had, on some level, _shut down_ and grew resigned. It was his particular way of coping, he knew, and it had served him well over the years. _One can endure the unendurable, if only one makes a sturdy mental compartment and stuffs unpleasant emotions inside. Focus only on pleasant things, amusements and the little delights of life. Allow oneself to be touched by tales of gallantry and quixotic sweetness but remain essentially detached from greater tragedies, unmoved by the troubles which abound. For if one ever allows that emotional dungeon open, the darkness might swallow one whole._ Worse was his hidden shame, and the weight of guilt he carried as a result. Where the world called him a model father, for keeping Augustus with him until the end, the care he showed his son, ensuring that he was well-fed and entertained, even smartly clothed, and his patient long-suffering tolerance even in the face of his son's ungovernable rages, he alone knew the truth. He had shut down emotionally. He had, towards the end, addressed Augustus as he would an equal, really little more than entertaining anecdotes from the day's appointments and amusing bits from the newspaper read aloud. He had lost all capacity for tenderness and true engagement, and the end, when it came, had robbed him of his last chance to make it all right. Compounding that sin of omission had been his final shameful deceit - lost in the grip of grief and the sudden untethered state he found himself in, that confabulation, describing his son's last moments as he wished them to be. Confiding to Caroline of all people, what he'd _wanted_ to be true, that at the end Augustus had sat up and spoken rationally, suddenly the son he'd always imagined.

"Papa!" A small palm tapped his cheek smartly, Lily no longer patient with her father's distraction. Melbourne shook off his musings – unprofitable to look at things best left in the past – and refocused his attention on his small daughter.

"Yes, my princess, I hear you."

"Then what did I _say_?" she demanded. "I _knew_ you weren't listening. I _said_ you must hear our prayers tonight. Lehzen says Mama has the headache and her fever has returned."

♛

"Relapsing fever is a recurring febrile disease. The symptoms are recurrent febrile episodes with headache, myalgia, and vomiting lasting 3 to 5 days, separated by intervals of apparent recovery."

Dr. Snow had been washing his hands in the Queen's dressing room when Melbourne strode in. The man painstakingly scrubbed each finger and applied a small brush to his nails. The younger of Melbourne's valets held a towel at the ready, and while they both watched, the physician unhurriedly continued his ablutions.

"She was entirely well this morning, and for the past week or more her energy was returned. We walked late last night, and she was…well, ebullient. High spirited and eager to take exercise, more even than has been the case since her illness."

"Her Majesty was well earlier today as well. That's the way these things go. We've seen more relapsing fever lately. I've dosed her with Chlorodyne. She is not as ill as previously was the case. Headache and malaise might last a few days, but she is not purging this time which is of course beneficial for the child."

Melbourne asked a few questions, but little more information was forthcoming. It was not especially dangerous, in a well-nourished female in the prime of life, merely unpleasant and incapacitating. _Activity as tolerated_, Snow said as he departed.

Victoria had been undressed and put to bed, although it was barely seven o'clock. The bedroom was dim, the only light coming from a lamp in the adjoining dressing room. Melbourne knew well how very unpleasant light and sound could be when his own head hurt, and so he whispered.

"Sweetheart, why didn't you send word? It took Lily to tell me you were unwell."

"You were magnificent today, and deserved to be fêted at the reception, William. I would not have troubled you for the world." Victoria's lips twisted into a wry smile, and although her eyes remained closed her hand reached for him.

"I'm not terribly ill, so you must not worry. Only, my head does hurt awfully just now. Will you sit with me? My joints ache so. Ugh, I hate being sick and I especially hate being confined to bed. When this baby is born I vow I will not spend another moment in bed – well, except for – _you_ know."

Victoria lifted the folded cloth covering her eyes and grinned at him, and Melbourne smirked in return. He settled himself beside her and stroked her cheek with a finger. Then his hand went to her abdomen, now a hard little mountain under her gown even when she lay on her back. He smoothed the thin fabric covering and caressed the circumference of that mountain, gently probing in hope of a response. He was not disappointed, feeling a firm rippling motion much like a wave and then a decisive poke.

_This unborn child, Liam, Lily – I pour out all the tenderness on them, of which Augustus was deprived once he became a man and no longer easy to love_. _For that alone I don't deserve what I have._

The thought had occurred to him before but never so clearly articulated. He tried, with moderate success, to push it away. _Nothing in the past must touch our present_, _this glorious golden present._ But it was a stubborn notion, not readily vanquished, and brought with it a strange anxiety which he knew was silly superstition. As if that other life could reach into the present and repossess his stolen contentment. As if for his failures and sins of omission he wasn't _supposed_ to be living this life, happy, contented.

He recalled that almost incidental encounter with Caroline, blameless, even vaguely pleasant. She bore him no malice, or Victoria either, and had said all the right things. But perhaps just _because_ she was a link to the past, and to that other barren life he would have lived without Victoria, she had stirred up all this nonsense.

Melbourne dipped his head and kissed Victoria's stomach, then blew against it, making a vulgar noise which made her giggle.

"Do stop, darling – laughing makes my head ache – no, don't stop. It's so good to laugh with you that I forget to be annoyed at my own illness. Laughing reminds me how happy and blessed we are."

"Very well, Mrs. Melbourne," he said, and complied at once, blowing against her skin so that his lips rippled and a _very_ vulgar sound mingled with the sweet sound of her laughter.

_Caroline Norton, 1846_


	27. Chapter 27

Strelitzia; Bird of Paradise - Lingua Flora: _"To you I am faithful"_

* * *

"Do you know how beautiful you are?"

Victoria, momentarily startled, looked over her shoulder at the intruder. Her husband stood in the doorway, leaning his weight on one extended arm. It was a rakish pose, and one which sent pleasant shivers up her spine. There had been an unmistakable note of sincerity in his voice; no mere rote compliment, then. She _felt_ beautiful in his presence, and it had been a startling sensation early on.

Victoria had always known she was not a _pretty_ girl, her features unremarkable, face too round, features too bland. Her figure, although unobjectionable, lacked any notable charm. She had been drilled into perfect posture, which somewhat compensated for a lack of inches, and had learned to depend upon dignity and awareness of her station in place of charm. Her own mother warned against a family propensity to put on pounds and insisted on rigidly controlling her diet as one element of the hateful _Kensington System_. Once out from under her mother's supervision, Victoria had given her greed free reign for a time. A critical courtier had once said she _gobbled_ her food, and the criticism made its way back to her as such comments are apt to do. Her own half-sister had told her she showed her gums when she laughed, and even dear Lehzen had contributed her mite, sniffing at such frivolous concepts as _beauty_ and reassuring Victoria that she was fortunate to escape the burden of an attractive appearance. Neatness, cleanliness and modest apparel were the virtues to which any decent young woman must aspire.

All that had changed the moment her Prime Minister looked in her eyes. His own danced with humor, and seemed to contain a world of tantalizing knowledge and experience. His own appearance took her breath away, in an entirely new and hitherto unimagined sensation but mostly, it had been the way he looked at _her_ which had been thrilling, even revelatory. Lord Melbourne – Lord _M_, as she soon named him, part of their budding friendship – looked at her as if he saw the inner person, the girl she knew as her authentic _self_.

Everyone else saw clay to be molded, a mind to be taught, a soul to be shaped according to the intertwined doctrines of State and Church. Even those who loved her best only saw _their_ Alexandrina. Mama saw a delicate, much-coddled child through which her own narrowly circumscribed life must be lived; dear Feodora saw the little sister whose birth had upended her own life, and around whom her family revolved. Lehzen saw a willful little girl with a keen intellect to be guided, a heart ripe to love and be loved and a destiny she could have a hand in shaping. They all loved Victoria, and she them, but each of them saw only a part of her, the reflection of their own dreams and aspirations.

Lord Melbourne, with his lazy, languid good nature, had been the first to see all of her and made no secret of the fact that he very much liked what he saw. He talked to her with a frankness to which she was unaccustomed, seeming to care not at all what was the _proper_ sentiment to express on any subject. His conversation was racy and entertaining and oh, so very enthralling compared to the milquetoast platitudes others expressed. And he admired her openly, as a girl and not only his sovereign, not with words or deeds but with the warmth in his beautiful eyes, warmth which only grew more heated when she responded in kind. And that, more than anything else, made her _feel_ beautiful, a beauty which was gradually reflected in the mirror and in the admiring glances of others.

"Even now?" she asked, looking down at her girth. The sight of her feet was a distant memory and her breasts were dwarfed by the bulge beneath.

"Especially now," he crooned, his voice husky. His long legs crossed the distance between them and in a flash his hands rested suggestively on her hips. "Gravid with my seed? What could be more beautiful – or erotic?"

His question was rhetorical, as he tipped her chin up and kissed her hard before she could utter a word.

Victoria found their substantial difference in height especially appealing at such moments. His well-cut black tailcoat elongated his torso and his legs, just now spread apart, were enticing beneath close-fitting trousers. She stroked his thigh and giggled at the noticeable response to her touch.

"Lord M, it's full daylight. Whatever has gotten into you?"

When she was able, Victoria took exercise daily, walking briskly up and down the Palace corridors attended by her dogs. Leda was a sleek little Italian greyhound, from the same bloodline as Albert's beloved Eos, and Deckel a German sausage dog called a _Dachshund_. Together they made a comical pair, manly little Deckel quite enthralled by his pert prancing long-legged ladylove. She had just now returned from such a walk and her cheeks were still pink from exertion. It was not the out-of-doors exercise she longed for, but it was better than remaining stationary for endless hours, reading, doing needlepoint or playing cards.

"I'd like to get into _you_," Melbourne said, his voice so gruff that to an eavesdropper he would have sounded quite _dangerously_ demanding. Victoria felt that little thrill again, matched by a spreading warmth in her loins.

"Quite improper," she tsked, twirling neatly out of his arms before her bodily response betrayed her into indiscretion. To soften her rebuff, Victoria reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his.

"Take me outside? Please? They've cleared the paths and spread cinders. I feel as though I've been cooped up forever!"

"I just came in from outdoors," Melbourne said, squeezing her hand before releasing it. "Lina and I accompanied Liam to the barracks. Billy arranged for the monkey to visit, all decked out in regimental colors, and Liam wished to reassure himself that his pet was happily situated."

Two thoughts immediately vied for supremacy as Victoria listened.

"And was he satisfied? He's not pining?" she asked calmly, determined to quell the quick surge of _what? Anger? Annoyance? Concern?_ she'd felt at Melbourne's words. _I will hold my tongue and think this through,_ she counseled her more rash, impetuous self.

"He does not yet apprehend that it's to be a permanent arrangement," Melbourne answered.

All concerned except the little prince himself were in agreement that a pet monkey had no place sharing its quarters with a newborn. Thus far, the animal had free run of the nursery and even those most opposed to its inclusion in the menagerie had grown accustomed. While the creature demonstrated no violent tendencies, it was possessed of sharp fangs and dexterous long-clawed prehensile hands which could do significant damage even without hostile intent.

Billy Cameron, from whom Liam had received his pet as a gift, suggested the happy solution of removing it to the quarters of the Household cavalry regiment. Liam idolized "his soldier" and by extension every uniformed officer was worthy of respect bordering on awe. He'd been proud and pleased to learn that the Colonel was desirous of appointing his little monkey their official mascot and consented to a trial visit.

Victoria was almost entirely distracted by Melbourne's description of the environment in which the animal found himself, the centre of attention and cause of general revelry. She smiled at his recounting of Liam's pleasure at being welcomed by the uniformed military men he so admired. Unfortunately, her resolution to defer comment on the other element of Melbourne's statement failed then.

"'Lina'?" Victoria asked, watching his face. _Was that a faint blush? _she wondered.

"Madame Hocédé," he answered smoothly. _Too smoothly?_ Victoria's inner voice prompted. "And Baron Cameron."

Displeased, yet unable to say more, so neatly had he lumped both their names together. How could she object to such informality in the use of one Christian name, if she failed to protest the other? Still, she could not quite like it, that her husband was becoming so well acquainted with the handsome Frenchwoman. Madame Hocédé was not a female in the first blush of youth; she was at least ten years older than Victoria herself. But she was an undeniably attractive woman, with thick nearly black hair and very beautiful deep-violet eyes. She also had that certain Gallic trait imperfectly known as _je ne sais quoi_, which most annoyingly left Victoria feeling at a perpetual disadvantage in her presence. Always correct, and up to even Lehzen's exacting standards, nonetheless Victoria could not warm to the woman and owned that her dislike arose from feminine envy.

"I see," she said, only to acknowledge him. Then, "I was not aware, but of course you spend more time with her than I do."

"I spend a great deal of time in the schoolroom, it is true," Melbourne explained reasonably, although not without a hint of defensiveness, Victoria thought.

"There has been nothing much else requiring my attention, now that Parliament is in session. And I suppose, I want to spend as much time as I can with Liam and Lily before the baby arrives. To reassure them that nothing will change."

He shook his head, whether in amusement or to express mild annoyance at being forced to explain, but then drew Victoria into his arms once more.

"So – do you want to go for that walk outdoors before dusk? Or would you rather stay in? I can find another means of expending excess energy, if you're so inclined."

Victoria knew that he was being deliberately flirtatious, and very nearly refused to succumb. But Melbourne exerting himself to be charming was impossible to resist and so she merely showed him what she hoped was a wry, _mature_ little frown before turning her face up to be kissed.

♛

"Do you know how beautiful you are?"

Melbourne paused his determined advance. Victoria's profile was softly illuminated by the late afternoon sun, showing that dear face to great advantage. Her profile was as pure as any to be found on a Grecian urn, fortunately made for the coins and stamps which bore her image. The sweet roundness of adolescence had melted away, revealing a surprisingly elegant jawline. Her nose was precisely correct in aspect, adorably kittenish when viewed from above, and the same finely drawn mouth which could appear stern in repose was full and inviting when softened by desire or warmly animated with laughter.

Pregnancy had enlarged her normally pert breasts, giving them newly generous proportions which thrilled him with sudden unfamiliarity. Her hips had widened by some reproductive osmosis, so that without adding unwanted flesh they most seductively flared. And her belly – _ah_, he reflected, _was there any sight more arousing to a red-blooded male than the sight of a woman gravid with his seed_? He expressed that sentiment aloud, perhaps unnecessarily as his interest was self-evident.

His interest in afternoon dalliance was perfectly, appropriately, reassuringly focused entirely on the woman in his arms. The heat in his blood was almost certainly a reaction to the presence of his lovely wife and the vaguest lingering sense of guilt at his peccability was washed away.

The frenetic activity that preceded the opening of Parliament had ceased, and Melbourne was no longer called upon to resolve differences and hammer out the compromises necessary to avoid stalemate. Russell's legislative agenda had been outlined in the Queen's speech he had delivered on her behalf, and the business of running a government commenced in earnest. There were no great matters of principle dividing the parties, only the means of implementing them. All agreed that the people of Ireland and Scotland could not be left to their own devices, to face the second year of failed harvest alone. Free trade was a matter of law once again, the Corn Laws repealed. What was left was to decide how best to attack each issue, and the Conservatives and Liberals, with a sprinkling of Radicals and Ultra Tories, settled down to the business of governing.

Victoria's bouts of relapsing fever left her listless and out of sorts for days on end. She was firmly counseled to avoid the schoolroom, lest she infect the children while symptomatic. Melbourne did what he could to raise her spirits, and in truth it was he and not she who struggled with melancholia. It was an old foe, the black dog of formless, causeless depression which snuck up like a sudden fog, dimming the light and sapping him of his customary good humor. He was adept at concealing the darkness of spirit, having done so for most of his life, and throwing himself into whatever diversion presented itself.

Melbourne had been long been a familiar presence in the nursery. From the lowest nursemaid to Baroness Lehzen herself, all of the children's caretakers were accustomed to Lord Melbourne's tall, elegant figure sitting in on lessons, listening gravely to the children's recitals and lowering himself unselfconsciously to the small chairs at each work table.

The attractive new French governess Madame Hocédé was engaged to teach French and German to Lily, Liam and the other children who populated the schoolroom. She had caught his eye by virtue of her elegant appearance, and the bold intelligence in those gleaming purple eyes. When he was near she exerted herself to be amusing, slipping some witty aside into the simple sentences she addressed to the children, then sliding her eyes to his, to see whether he'd understood.

Madame Hocédé carried herself as proudly as any gentlewoman with nothing subservient in her manner. He assumed she was part of the wellborn émigrée community, forced to earn their bread after the Revolution. Some had returned to France when the Law of Indemnity of 1825 promised to reimburse the most needy of those who lost their lands, but a substantial number remained in England, unable to trust their countrymen after the excesses of the Revolution.

Melbourne found her engaging, her conversation as clever as any to be found in the most select _salons_. She was fluent in half a dozen Romance languages, clever and extremely well-read, able to recognize and respond to his most erudite remarks, returning an obscure quotation with one of her own, equally apt. Their acquaintance extended to the borrowing and lending of books, often with some note included, continuation of an earlier discussion, and they sometimes walked together – always with the children – in the brisk winter air. Lehzen's insistence on vigorous exercise in all but the most inclement weather provided frequent opportunity for such informal tête-à-tête.

Melbourne firmly believed, with every fibre of his being, that intellectual friendships between members of the opposite sex were unobjectionable. He also believed, with the practical wisdom of long experience, that purely innocent, light-hearted flirtations, if they included no overtly suggestive content, were one of the pleasures of life. And he knew, with equal certainty, that his young wife would most emphatically disagree. Thus, he engaged not in subterfuge but extreme circumspection, to keep Victoria from being unnecessarily distressed. It was not as though he had any _designs_ on the Frenchwoman, or that he would entertain, even for a moment, the idea of pursuing any improper intimacy. She was good company on those long, idle winter days, that was all, he told himself when his thoughts circled round to _what would Victoria think?_

_Lina_ was a slip of the tongue, one which he thought he successfully explained away. Victoria showed him a little moue of displeasure, but in one as candid as she, he was reassured that she said nothing else. Ironically, the explanation he offered, the first which came to mind, reawakened his only-somewhat-dormant jealousy of Victoria's own platonic flirtation and it was all he could do to refrain from making some sarcastic comment on her omnipresent _cavalier_.

Victoria tugged at his sleeve and he looked down at her pursed lips, then obliged her with a kiss. She had already rang the bell to call for her maid to bring cloak and boots.

"Shall we go out by way of the children's apartment, and bring Lily? If she was left behind when you went to the barracks, I'm sure she'd be delighted at the prospect of having us all to herself."

"I think not today," Melbourne said quickly, preferring just then to avoid another encounter with the aforementioned Madame Hocédé. "Let's walk to the conservatory. I would like to check on the Strelitzia we were attempting to force is in bloom."

"Strelitzia?" Victoria repeated, her tongue deftly articulating the Germanic pronunciation.

"It's name commemorates the late, unfortunate Queen Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. You might, if you wish, find it in here as Bird of Paradise. _Pour toi, mon amour_." As they exited the apartment Melbourne plucked up Victoria's well-thumbed volume of Lingua Flora and presented it with a flourish.


	28. Chapter 28

The room was nearly pitch-dark when Liam opened his eyes, and that alone was enough to shock him. They were always to have a nightlight burning, no matter the mocking faces some of the younger attendants made behind Lehzen's back.

Now that he was big – _six_ years old! – he slept alone, or as alone as he could be in when Lily often snuck into his room once the governesses withdrew.

He didn't remember the nightmares, but was resigned to their aftermath, the momentary disorientation when he could not recognize his surroundings, the feeling of something caught in his throat and cold fingers plinking down his back. He was so accustomed that he assumed everyone experienced the same night terrors. Papa did, and had told him so, explaining that occasional bad dreams were a mind's way of ridding itself of indigestible bits and pieces – things he had half-heard, seen, read and imagined. Liam almost giggled in the thick darkness, remembering that Papa had compared it to his body making fuel from good, nourishing food and then ridding itself of the residue. Except Papa had used a word so colorful that he hadn't needed to warn against repeating it. That comparison of his night terrors to the smelly business he did in the privy had been so outrageous it robbed his dreams of the power to frighten – nearly.

If only there was light he would fix his gaze on one familiar object, then another – the sailing-ship painting, the reading corner with Papa's big chair, his books and blocks and Mama's sketches, the great unused cage once intended to confine his wayward monkey – until his body was becalmed and his mind once more firmly anchored in place. _But there was no light!_

Liam counted on predictability and the comfort of familiar people and things. That, too, he accepted with unquestioning equanimity. Lily was _unruly_ where he was obedient, and she was brave while he was careful. He understood those facts as well, and was perfectly content with the status quo. _Why was the nightlight off?_

Baroness Lehzen now retired to her own nearby apartment, leaving a night nurse in charge of the nursery. Mama had said it must be so, and that dear good Lehzen was getting older just as surely as he himself was. But the very _silly_ girl who attended him by night would rather giggle in the corridor with one or another of the pages, than check on him as she should, listening for his call or the ringing of the bell at his bedside. He had learned to his regret that if he was persistent in his call she would come, full of hissing, mocking spite. Of course she would not _strike_ him, or even behave in a way he could recognize as cruel, but her impatience and simmering resentment unsettled him all the same.

Dread of facing the darkness, without even a glimpse of familiar landmarks, kept him still, willing sleep to return, until he could ignore his bladder no longer. The chamber pot they left for him, so he would not have to use the water closet at night, was just under the bed, modestly out of sight. To reach it he would have to dangle his bare feet until they touched the cold floor, or until _something_ grabbed at his ankles and pulled. That, or – _no!_ he would not, could not, contemplate the alternative, and the shame he knew he would feel if he wet the bed.

Liam sat up and in one quick motion slid his legs out from under the bedclothes and off the bed. He slithered nimbly down and then took a deep, steadying breath. Reaching under the bed would require he turn his back to the cavernous space where _anything_ might wait, poised to lunge. Half-anticipating what might come next, Liam lowered himself and reached his hand beneath the skirting. Just then he heard the most wonderful sound in the world.

_Papa! His laughter! The low rumble of his voice!_ Suddenly everything was all right again and he could be grateful that there were no witnesses to his foolish fears. Papa had come to check on him once more, as he so often did, and even now might be nearing the door. Liam did his business quickly and covered the pot with a towel, careful to avoid any untidy splashes. Then he padded across the floor, resolute, no longer heeding the darkness.

Liam's bedchamber and Lily's were adjacent, linked by the large sunny daytime space which served as their schoolroom. Another small room was now empty and smelled of fresh paint. Liam hesitated outside his sister's door, but she was uncharacteristically silent. He thought of going into the schoolroom to look for Papa, but just then heard voices coming from the empty chamber.

He saw with relief that Papa _was_ within and confidently approached.

"Hullo!" the gravelly voice sounded as it always did, infinitely familiar and good. Forgetting that he was a big boy now and too old to be carried, Liam lifted his arms.

"Look what we have here," his Papa said, showing him the paper he was holding. It was a pastel drawing, of rabbits wearing clothing. Liam examined it with interest, seeing new details the longer he looked. Rabbits dressed as boys and girls, a cottage surrounded by grass and bright flowers.

"Madame has given me these for the new baby's room. Look, here's another, and another and another. What do you think, Liam?"

Papa held one and another of the drawings against the wall, walking around the edge of the now-cozy nighttime space. Liam nodded, smiling shyly, unaccustomed to seeing his teacher in the dark.

"It's a surprise for Mama," his father said. "Shall we keep them secret until the baby's room is complete? We will ask Baroness Lehzen to order window dressings and furnishings to match the colors in the pictures. Then, when the nursery is all ready for your new brother or sister, we can bring Mama in and show her."

Liam considered the proposition. The bunnies were very pretty – _sweet_, he knew the ladies would say – and just the thing for a baby. Mama's ladies were busily embroidering tiny garments and even Grandmama talked of little else except the responsibilities of a big brother and who must be attend the christening. Kings and Queens, aunts and uncles, he had never met would make the journey from far-distant lands. Grandmama reminded anyone who would listen that this time there would be a _royal_ christening, not the modest affair which attended Liam's own birth or the hasty private ceremony when Lily was born. _But_ – and he frowned, choosing his words with care because Papa was very wise, and loved Mama very _very_ much, and he always knew exactly what Mama would think and say on any subject.

"Mama does not like secrets, Papa. I think we should show her now. She will like the pretty pictures very much, I am sure."

It was not to be expected that Lily would sleep through such unaccustomed nighttime activity. She called out and Papa went to her, carrying Liam with him. The three of them returned to his bedchamber and Liam slid over to make room for his sister.

It was against the rules, but not a very _big_ rule, and even Mama did not protest too much when she found the children snuggled together. Liam liked the reassuring presence of his sometimes-annoying but most often loved little sister, and liked even more when Papa joined them, leaning against the headboard. What was best of all, on a night which began with a bad dream, was when Mama came in. Both children giggled when Papa tugged gently at her hand, so she had to sit on his other side.

Papa's arms encircled them all, and when he sang them a silly rhyme even Mama giggled. Those were the loveliest sounds in the whole world, Liam thought sleepily – Papa's rough, croaking voice not meant for singing, and Mama's laughter and Lily's soft even breathing. He sighed and turned on his side, feeling safe and content, and decided he was quite the luckiest boy in the world. His last thought before sleep claimed him, was that he should tell Mama all about Madame Hocédé's pretty pictures.

♛

"I'm getting too old for this. Too old, or too out of practice or just too besotted with my own wife." Melbourne hadn't spoken the words aloud, but he might as well have, for the flickering uncertainty in those handsome violet eyes.

Nothing was more enjoyable than an innocent flirtation, or so he had always believed. He had rarely initiated such light-hearted flirtation, but neither had he been a reluctant participant. Nothing crude, nothing gauche or heavy-handed, of course. Merely witty repartee, a gaze that lingered a heartbeat longer than strictly necessary, banter like badminton with a well-matched partner, even verbal sparring over some literary critique or philosophical difference. What was more pleasant than to discover a like mind, someone who instantly understood the arcane references which others missed?

Most of his many flirtations had gone no further than the drawing room, and unacknowledged, unresolved sexual tension accentuated the zest of such encounters. Even those which evolved into a fully consummated liaison were meant to be casual affairs, pleasurable for both without undue attachment or expectation.

He had considered himself a man of the world, fully capable of deftly setting boundaries and stepping nimbly back from the edge. And he had never, no, not once, _ever_, conducted even the most innocent of flirtations under his own roof. No matter that this particular roof sheltered nearly a thousand rooms, he regretfully admitted to himself that it was time to draw this scintillating friendship to a close. But how?

Madame Hocédé had been waiting for him, doubtless for more than a single evening, which showed an unsettling determination on her part. A woman as sophisticated as she, a _Frenchwoman_ no less, should know better than to be so very obvious about her intentions. He often looked in on the children while they slept, but on no predictable schedule, and as often with Victoria as without her. Yet there she was, the governess who should have long since vacated the schoolroom and returned to her own distant apartment. More elaborately coiffed than her educational duties required, in an attractive purple lustre gown which would not have been out of place in the Queen's drawing room, she had stepped out of an alcove into his path.

The drawings were her excuse. Her half-day had been spent in the city, and she had brought them back, thinking the charming animal sketches might be just the thing for the new nursery. What did he think?

Clumsily, caught off-guard, Melbourne had muttered only that the Queen must be final arbiter of such things. He felt a fool as soon as he heard himself, sounding as out of practice and awkward as any novice. His pride rebelled, and he remembered himself, showing her a charming crooked smile.

"I'm afraid you startled me, ma'am. I was lost in my own thoughts. I am surprised that you would interrupt your only free day on my account. Surely there is a gentleman in the City – or more than one? – who must be pining for your company."

It was not satisfactory, but it must do. He would not _encourage_, in fact he would actively _discourage_, but not in a heavy-handed way that would brand him a doddering old fool. Worse than that, in a way which might make it appear as though he were so thoroughly cowed by his own wife that he dared not indulge in even an unobjectionable casual conversation.

The crystal chandeliers casting bright prisms of light in all directions pale the watercolor drawings, so they look like cheap, tawdry things, she'd complained. We must see them in the new nursery, in a softer light – then, if they're not worthy, I will be the first to toss them in the fire_._

_Once I would have been sure_, Melbourne told himself angrily. _There is nothing overt happening here – how could there be? What if I'm mistaken in her intentions, what if she is as she seems, a bright, independent woman who might be bold in overstepping the customary boundaries of any governess with her employer, but has no seductive intentions? She is a good teacher, handles Lily capably without subduing the child's spirit, draws Liam out of his natural shyness._

What he was sure of, was that he harbored no inappropriate desires. A mild stirring, perhaps – if more than mild, after he'd spent a heady half hour in the Frenchwoman's company, it only propelled him back to Victoria, eager for her embrace. It was _Victoria_ he wanted, no one else, not since the very first moment their eyes met. He was gratified by the playfully flirtatious look in those violet eyes, it gave him a heightened awareness that he was still a desirable man – but no more.

It was up to him to set the tone, to negotiate the fine line between proper and improper – a line he'd never given much thought to before. He had been in the process of doing just that, when Liam came upon them, standing alone together in the dimly lit nursery, their heads nearly touching as they bent over those damned, undeniably charming drawings.

* * *

_Drawings borrowed from Beatrix Potter, created half a century later. (Forgive the artistic license.)_


	29. Chapter 29

Victoria made up her mind and, once made up, devoted no more thought to the problem, which was, after all, quite minor. When the moment was right, she would handle the matter discreetly and with no undue histrionics, so as not to draw the very sort of attention she hoped to avoid.

Possessed of a naturally hot temper more like her own daughter's than she liked to admit, Victoria had gradually learned restraint. First to avoid giving John Conroy the satisfaction of seeing her impotent fury, then later for the more tender, if no less selfish, desire to be the wife her dearest darling William deserved. The last time she had been entirely overtaken by rage still lived in her memory, faded but etched too deeply to entirely forget. Billy Cameron's behavior might be faultless on the surface, but she could never encounter him without imagining she saw amusement in the depths of his eyes.

When she considered the matter at all, Victoria ruefully acknowledged that she could only claim some of the credit for her newfound forbearance. As her confidence grew, that self-protective fury receded and the credit for _that_ was solely Lord M's.

He prized equanimity, and cherished the calm, easy friendship between them as much as he did their passionate physical attraction and deep, abiding love. Once, when she was no more than a silly chit of a girl, Victoria had considered Caroline Lamb the epitome of a glamourous, desirable woman. She had formed that impression based on no more than furtive adolescent reading of Glenarvon and the half-admiring way in which the sophisticated ladies at Court pretended to despise her.

Caro, tempestuous, more enamored of dramatics, with herself cast as the star, than she had been of her poet or any of the other men she'd brought to her bed – _that_ Caro was never the woman William loved. The indifference he affected was not entirely feigned; burning public humiliation had all but extinguished the flame of his ardor. He harbored no malice – something Victoria could finally understand when her own marital bond was made up of ten thousand interwoven strands - but his sustained affection was for the memory of a fey timid girl and the bloated sickly creature who retreated from the world, finally spent.

So – no dramatics, no Cheltenham tragedy to be enacted over what scarcely rose to the level of a mildly impertinent servant. A loaned book that Lord M carelessly left on his bedside table, a perhaps marked but certainly not improper tendency to converse with the governess in full view of spiteful nursery attendants, the two of them speaking in foreign tongues, now French, then Greek, yet again Latin.

Loathe to record her thoughts in even the private diary which held those musings not suited to the more formal journal she kept for posterity, Victoria instead spent a few minutes quizzing herself. _Am I complacent? _No, certainly not! was the answer. Despite an innately pragmatic nature, Victoria placed full faith and confidence in her own instinct, where William was concerned. Of course the creature found him appealing – all women did, and for that matter, nearly all gentlemen as well. Even those with whom Melbourne had longstanding ideological differences liked him personally; no less an opponent than the fiery Brougham, who had so cruelly disparaged the Melbourne government, and Melbourne the chief Minister, considered himself on terms of the most amiable friendship with the man.

_And William? Did he admire _her_? _ Victoria gave the matter only a moment's reflection. _Not in any way that compromises _us_, _was the unequivocal answer_._ Certainly Madame Hocédé was a handsome female, with that Gallic panache, but Victoria had never detected even a frisson of genuine attraction from Lord M. Naturally, he was gratified by the admiration of an intelligent, well-educated woman who comported herself with an air of consequence that exceeded her station in life, but in all it meant nothing.

♛

"Fred and Adine are coming to town," Melbourne said, offering the single sheet to Victoria to read. She scanned it briefly and then looked at her calendar.

"Shall we have them to Brocket this weekend?"

"Em and Henry as well?"

"We can hardly have the one without the other. And Fanny, and whomever else they – or you – think. Not a large party, and not formal. Without shooting, there's precious little to do and the fields will be too wet to ride."

Victoria quite enjoyed the calm deliberation of the morning, when they reviewed the day's engagements, looked ahead to the week and month, read and responded to their personal correspondence which sometimes threatened to overtake the official dispatches and missives from foreign Courts in sheer volume.

"Louis-Phillipe," she said drily, passing over several closely written vellum sheets. Melbourne took them and settled back to read.

"He is quite agitated by the intelligence that Henry intends to lend moral support to the Papacy by sending a diplomatic mission to Rome."

"Louis is a good Catholic. Why do you think it bothers him so?"

"Because the request should have come from him, of course. Then he could take credit for supporting the Pope's liberal reforms, and credit for using his influence to win British support. This way, he feels quite redundant to the entire process."

"Poor Louis!" Victoria exclaimed, feeling vaguely guilty that she was not as sympathetic as she should be. He _was_ a fellow sovereign, but she could never entirely embrace the divine right of a King who was chosen as little more than a figurehead. That, she supposed, described Leopold as well, leaving only her own throne and those of Spain and Austria as truly God-ordained.

"Lehzen wishes to see you, ma'am. Do you have time, before you commence preparing for Johnny's audience?"

"For Lehzen? Always. Although," Victoria scrunched up her nose, miming distaste. "if it's the household accounts again, I do hope she spares me any lectures on economizing. We are halfway through with the East front renovations and Sir Henry assures me that construction is on schedule and, more importantly, on budget thanks to the sale of the Brighton fixtures."

She arched her back and stretched her neck to one side and then the other to relieve stiffness which set in when she remained in one position too long. Melbourne began expertly kneading the tightness in her shoulders, and his big warm hands felt so delicious she allowed her head to drop back against him.

A hall page opened the door to announce Baroness Lehzen, who approached with a dignified manner that took pains to ignore the indelicate spectacle. Melbourne, slightly abashed, stepped away and Victoria rose, going around the desk.

"Dear Lehzen, how good of you to come and see me," she purred sweetly, offering her hand to help her old governess rise from the pro forma curtsy. "Shall I ring for tea and biscuits?"

"How do you do, ma'am? Are you feeling quite well?"

"I am, Lehzen. Surely if I was not, you would be the first to know. I cannot be ill without my own dear Lehzen to care for me."

Pleasantries exchanged, Victoria resigned herself to a cursory review of the household accounts. Her comptroller and Keeper of the Privy Purse maintained overall responsibility for expenditures, but Lehzen took it upon herself to maintain a close watch over the expenses of running the Queen's private household.

"We are short nearly a dozen servants' rooms, ma'am. The construction has made it necessary to keep four to a room, and soon we will have males and females on the same floor." Lehzen perfectly conveyed the unacceptably scandalous nature of such an arrangement. "Your chief dresser must lose her private suite, or share it with _both_ assistants."

"That settles it," Melbourne said, slapping his knee briskly. "Baines will have to marry the woman, and take her into his apartment."

"Sir! My Lord! We can't have _married_ women cohabiting. It would set a precedent that –"

"You'd rather they share an apartment without marrying? Very well…" Melbourne pretended dubiousness, and Victoria's laughter won a grudging smile from Lehzen.

"You jest, Lord Melbourne. Still, we can free up another apartment by increasing the stipend paid to the French governess. She has expressed a wish to set herself up in a small house near the Park, if only we can make up the rent. She points out that already Herr Heyse receives ten pounds additional, in lieu of his room and board."

Victoria did not hesitate.

"Oh, that would not do, Lehzen. Surely you agree, it would give rise to _such_ talk, if an unmarried woman were to live alone without family or chaperone. Surely there's another solution. Madame Hocédé must remain in the Palace, where we can protect her reputation for virtue. Of course, if she is not happy here, we can write to our Uncle Leopold, or even Louis-Phillipe, and secure her a position with either of them. Please, encourage her to remain – she is _such_ a good teacher – but if she prefers to leave our employment, assure her that we will obtain for her a position abroad."

Victoria decided she was pleased with the cool, even tenor of her reply. Dear Lehzen could be trusted to scotch any notion the woman had of setting up housekeeping beyond the eyes and ears of the Palace. _Not_ that there was any particular reason to suspect her motives in wanting a private residence, only…just, no. It would not do. And if she chose, of her own volition, to seek her fortune elsewhere, Victoria would provide superlative references. Madame Hocédé was _just_ the sort of woman Uncle Leopold would appreciate to take the place of Stockmar's cousin Caroline Bauer.

♛

Victoria had been in no hurry to rise and leave the nursery. It was quite lovely and peaceful, the four of them lying together in Liam's bed, William's arms cradling them all against his chest. He had sung them to sleep, in his funny croaking voice, and sung himself to sleep as well.

Victoria had smiled into the soft enveloping darkness, watching her dear ones at rest. Lily slept with her arms and legs flung out, like a little pink starfish in the moonlight. Liam, even in repose, was tidy and self-contained, his hands folded on his chest. She stretched out her hand and lightly touched the curly hair both children had from their father. The Lamb hair, so fine and abundant, she thought, glad of it. Liam's was light brown now, darkening from the original silvery blond of infancy. Lily's as dark as her own but wild, cascading corkscrew curls which refused to stay decently confined, her hair and torn flounces and sagging stockings causing Lady Lyttleton to compare her to a Gypsy. And how Lily adored her Papa! Victoria wondered whether she would have idolized her own Papa with such ferocity, and decided that she might have, except that no child could have a father as dear as William.

She watched over them tenderly, not wanting to disturb the tableau until William made a snorting sound that might have been the prelude to snoring, except it startled him awake. When he opened his eyes, those beautiful eyes, their expression was ineffably sweet. She had kissed his brow, the arch of his strong nose and each corner of his mouth.

"Mine," she had whispered, stroking his face. "_All mine." _

"All yours," he had answered. "You are my everything."

They had struggled to rise from Liam's soft featherbed, and tiptoed out of the room together. Hands linked, Victoria and Melbourne went away together, not caring who might glimpse such a public display of affection.

♛

Victoria, satisfied with herself, sat quietly and pretended interest as Lehzen continued discussing mundane household issues. She addressed both of them and Melbourne showed his customary careful courtesy, asking the occasional question, encouraging Lehzen to express her opinion, then ratifying some decision. Censure one attendant, commend another; recommend one of the long-suffering nursery pages for advancement, and ask to have the other replaced with a more child-tolerant fellow.

Meanwhile, Victoria savored a serene sense of contentment which was the reward for hard-won maturity. _This_ was true happiness, nursery rhymes sung in the dark, hands linked in the corridor. Reading letters, discussing the family business of State, and finding something to laugh at in even the dryest of dispatches. That precious private hour at day's end, when their door closed out the world, when her cold feet found his warm limbs under the bedcovers and they talked of everything and nothing, when they made love or didn't, but always – _always – _found comfort in each other's embrace.

_How awful it was to be so very young, and so very, very desperately unsure of the miracle we had in our hands! This is the true sacrament of marriage, as God intended it – not the pomp and ritual of a man-made ceremony, but companionship and abiding regard. Two people becoming one, not because we are the same but because our differences complete one another and make us far better together than we could ever be, apart._

"Ma'am, I beg you, pay attention to this part," Melbourne's voice, as familiar as a caress, broke into Victoria's reverie. "The Baroness tells us that our household servants alone consumed _twenty-two pounds of tea_ last quarter. Surely that sort of gluttony must be addressed."

He was teasing, of course, and Victoria knew by the wink he gave Lehzen that they were both gently chiding her for her inattention. She grinned, blushing, and focused on the task at hand.

_Caroline Bauer, in white dress_


	30. Chapter 30

_Emily Temple, née The Honourable Emily Lamb, keeping country hours like a vicar's wife – whatever would my friends make of it?_

_I prefer the flattering warmth of candlelight to the harsher, less forgiving glare of morning_. _Late evenings filled with scintillating conversation and the spice of intrigue. But the sweet familiarity of home fills my senses while I sleep, and rather than a gradual emergence from slumber I find myself filled with restless energy and eager to begin a new day__. _

_The air here is redolent of nostalgia, and I find myself dreaming of happy days long gone. Funny how one can know a house by its smell, and even stranger, how the olfactory sense can conjure such poignant memories._ _I was a hoyden once, determined to keep up with my brothers. Four brothers then, my heroes, against whom I would measure every other man. Now only two remain. Pen and George left us too soon, leaving Fred and my sweet William. I am not prone to introspection, and prefer to live in the present. But my dear Brocket Hall will always be _home.

_I am here for William, at his request, while he stays in London tending to business. Frippery business it is, dedicating monuments and opening museum wings, unveiling statutes and such. For every Privy Council meeting he attends in her absence, there are a dozen of the other kind. _

_"Take away too much of the grandeur and mystique," William grumbles each time a new ceremony appears on his calendar, "and we'll sacrifice the very essence of this thing we seek to preserve."_ _But that is darling William, ever resistant to change, pragmatic enough to accept that which could not be avoided or averted. It's what we wanted when we were young and full of zeal for reform; cradle Whigs the lot of us, nominally royalist but convinced that the monarchy was only symbolic and Parliament must be supreme._

_William does his duty as consort to a Queen Regnant, but he pines while my own husband rejoices in his temporary freedom. Henry is in his element now, up to his ears in foreign policy without Victoria's oversight. I walk a fine line between loyalties, telling myself it is not my place to carry tales which would surely enrage her, when the doctors prescribe rest._

_Vicky left London a fortnight ago, when she grew so ungainly she could no longer manage in that great mausoleum. She is so large now that birth seems imminent and, darling girl, she insists William's child will be born at Brocket Hall. The obstetrician is in residence, naturally, but he confines himself to the library, scribbling from morning to night. Dr. Ferguson is confident that several weeks remain, assuring us the babe will not drop until March._

_William travels the roads between Buckingham and Hatfield so frequently his horses know the way, but despite his best efforts he must necessarily be absent a good many days. Like any doting sister I was fool enough to feel flattered when he turned to me._

_It was no small favor, asking me to cancel my engagements and close my fine new house at 4 Carlton Terrace. Henry encouraged me to go, and before I agreed had already set his valet to packing. He would stay at his club, he said, to observe the pro forma separation between Crown and government by declining accommodation in any of the seven hundred-odd rooms in the palace. _

_And so here I am, confined with la petite reine, and finding it surprisingly enjoyable. It seems odd to contemplate, but in the years since William brought us together, she's only just begun to let down her guard. Victoria is not who I would choose as a friend, and I might not precisely _like_ her, if liking is a rational response to the serendipitous discovery of shared interests and like minds. But I can say honestly that I have learned to love her, for no more reason than we love those to whom we are bound by ties of blood and marriage._

_Victoria is often restless in the night, and when I hear her I sometimes bear her company. I remember those interminable last weeks, although my own childbearing years are behind me, and to her credit she is grateful for my efforts to distract her. She never tires of hearing stories of our childhood, and whatever tale comes to mind she listens eagerly. Our childhood was a happy one, free of undue constraint. We roamed at will through the woods, building elaborate forts and staging battles. Eyes shining, biting her bottom lip with her little white teeth, she looked like a child herself then, reliving our adventures secondhand._

_The poor dear never had a childhood, not in the sense we did. The arid isolation of the Kensington years is well enough known now that I need not elaborate. She was starved for such ordinary pleasures and determined to give her own children the experience of a loving, closely-knit family._

_"When this baby is born a Lamb, I will truly feel a part of your family," she told me once, stroking her distended belly. The earnestness of her sentiment shocked me._

_"You were an honorary Lamb since the very beginning," I assured her. "And a Lamb in truth since William made you his wife. Liam and Lily are –" I did not continue, because I knew what she meant and would have no polite fiction between us. "You are the little sister I always wanted, the wife for William I hoped for, and this new baby will only add to the joy that Liam and Lily already bring us."_

_I blush when I remember that maudlin speech, but I do not regret it. Her wistful smile, her downcast eyes, the trembling of her lip, told me more than words could, how much that reassurance touched her._

_The weather has been fine, sunny enough for February that the snowdrops have sprung up on the East Lawn. We walk out of doors, careful to keep to those paths where the footing is stable, attended by a pack of dogs. Always one of the protection officers follow, keeping a discreet distance. They follow the orders of their chief, the big Irishman in charge of the Queen's special agents, and nothing I might say could persuade them to remain in the Lodge. Imagining as I often do the fix we'd be in if she took a tumble or her pains came on, I only pretend to mock the abundance of caution which keeps her so well protected._

_Whether on those walks, or during the afternoon when she retired to her bedchamber and I kept her company while she rested, we talked as women do. She appealed to my vanity, how avid she was to devour every experience, every anecdote, every thought I uttered. Was that how it was for my brother in the beginning, that heady sense that one was the most fascinating creature on the planet? It quite went to my head, I am sure, but if Vicky was fonder of listening to my opinions than sharing her own, who was I to demur? She was careful, always, to give no hint of her own impressions of the people we knew in common; she did not trade confidence for confidence, and when she spoke of my brother it was always to quote some one of his famous aphorisms, the outrageous opinions he threw out in jest. But her whole countenance altered when she spoke his name, her expression softened and a misty glow seemed to emanate from within. _

_William, when he comes, consumes all her attention and then our female friendship is held in abeyance. Victoria is one of those women who cannot feign interest in anyone else when her man is present. She is not unkind or insensitive; all others simply cease to exist as more than shadows in the light of his sun. Oh, she will smile pleasantly, murmur a bland response when courtesy requires, but always her eyes are on him. William might catch my eye over her head, and I see from his sheepish acknowledgement that theirs is a world for two._

_She does not, to her credit, begrudge me his company, nor does she resent our easy affection. William does his best to include me, but when the two of them are together on one of his brief visits I prefer to absent myself. _

_And so the days of winter pass, marching to spring. In March my brother will celebrate his own sixty-eight birthday and the arrival of his little Lamb. In the meantime, it is up to me to keep watch over all he holds dear._


	31. Chapter 31

_Sir Humphry Davy, 1st Baronet (17 December 1778 – 29 May 1829)_

"'‘On Breathing Nitrous Oxide’," intoned the apprentice, pronouncing each syllable with exaggerated care.

Not in the ideal dreams of wild desire Have I beheld a rapture-waking form;

My bosom burns with no unhallowed fire:

Yet is my cheek with rosy blushes warm

Yet are my eyes with sparkling lustre filled

Yet is my mouth replete with murmuring sound

Yet are my limbs with inward transport thrilled

And clad with newborn mightiness around'"

John Snow stood to one side while the younger man recited the poem from memory. Melbourne might have been amused at the older physician's pained expression, if the underlying subject had not been so important. Locock and Ferguson, physician-accoucheurs, exchanged expressionless glances that conveyed volumes.

Victoria's bedchamber was filled to capacity for Snow's presentation. It was a modestly-sized room, less than half the size of their counterpart suites at Buckingham and Windsor, and might have been uncomfortably close, if not for the cool air admitted by the window Snow insisted on opening. That in itself might have been only mildly eccentric – the wind was brisk enough to remind one that spring had not yet arrived – except for his explanation: _Out of an abundance of caution_ and _volatile gas._ He had earlier required that all fires be extinguished, and checked for himself that hearth and stove were both cold.

Victoria had taken to her bed on the first of the month, and Melbourne had found her thus when he'd arrived with the children and her mother. After a hectic period during which he'd divided his time between London and Brocket Hall, they had jointly determined it was time he step back from all public engagements. Victoria was adamant that her time had not yet come, but she wanted her family around her for the final weeks.

Melbourne, finding her abed when he arrived, had sought out Ferguson and demanded an honest assessment. All was well, the obstetrician had assured him, and there was no risk of premature labor. Calculating a due date was haphazard at best, Ferguson explained. It involved little more than counting from the last monthly course, assuming regular cycles. In Victoria's case it was purely guesswork, based mostly on an estimation of the child's size.

_She_ claimed to know precisely the date, and would not be dissuaded. Her medical attendants humored her, clearly believing in their own greater expertise, but Melbourne himself would not wager against her strong will.

Humphry Davy was a handsome young Cornishman, Snow explained in a well-rehearsed preamble. His genius combined art and science, and he was as accomplished a poet as he was a chemist and inventor. Davy had originally conceived the radical idea of pain-free surgery a half-century before. His experiments with volatile compounds were much influenced the discovery of their effect on the mind. If he had not been drawn to the Byronic set, Southey, Shelley and their ilk, his discoveries might have advanced surgery by a hundred years. When those thoroughly disreputable hedonists embraced the mind- and mood-altering properties of ether and nitrous oxide, making inhalation parties popular with the fast set, orthodox men of science turned their collective backs on both moral and prudential grounds.

"Each compound has its advantages and disadvantages, but when used with care – and I have continued Davy's experiments, adding my own data to his own – they can be administered quite safely, with only rare deleterious effects."

"So they can be dangerous? No matter how rare the occurrence?"

"These gases would, if successfully administered, permit my body to carry on the business of delivery but without pain?"

Melbourne and Victoria spoke simultaneously, and Snow, looking from one to the other, properly answered her first.

"Without you being aware of any pain," Snow agreed hesitantly. "Without _caring_ about what we call pain. Some believe that pain exists solely in the mind."

"Both Priestley and the American chemist Dr Samuel Mitchill consider nitrous oxide a lethal gas," Ferguson interjected.

"I need not remind my esteemed colleagues that every substance, every medical treatment, every surgical intervention _can_ be dangerous, even lethal. Take bloodletting, a universally accepted remedy for nearly every systemic imbalance. Benign, perhaps beneficial – although I have my own doubts, in all but a handful of maladies – and yet, it _could_ lead to exsanguination, am I correct?"

Melbourne intervened before Snow went entirely off-track and engaged in academic debate with his colleagues.

"Continue, please."

Snow heated crystals of ammonium nitrate over the tiny flame of an alcohol lamp, while his assistant collected the gas released in a green oiled-silk bag, then passed it through water vapour to remove impurities.

The younger man settled himself in the comfortable armchair Melbourne considered his own. He then inhaled the gas through a mouthpiece while Dr. Snow monitored his pulse rate. The immediate obvious danger, Snow said, talking over his shoulder, was that the ammonium nitrate would explode at a temperature above 400 degrees, or that excessive concentration of fumes might permanently injure the lungs.

"But I do remind you that nitrous oxide and ether were consumed in a pursuit of pleasure, in drawing rooms all over London and the Continent. Our most celebrated poets prized it for the unleashing of what they called their _unconscious_, removing the artificial barriers imposed by societal expectations and the inhibitions of one's higher mind. Opium is considered a benign drug, one that you can purchase in various forms at any corner apothecary, and yet I contend it has a much greater potential for harmful long-term effects than this mild gas, carefully taken."

Melbourne's attention was on the young man, who appeared entirely well and perfectly awake. He noted only subtle changes in expression, indicating relaxation of his prior reserve, even when Snow slid a hand inside his assistant's shirt and twisted his nipple.

Snow removed the mouthpiece and inserted the end of a small bellows.

"He would come around quite naturally, but in the interests of time I am now administering room air to speed things along. This room is well-ventilated, which is, I believe, a necessary precaution in all but the most inclement conditions."

"I can only describe what I felt as highly pleasurable sensations, even thrilling, particularly in the chest and…er…extremities," Snow's assistant reported. Melbourne had heard much of the sensual aspects surrounding those _gas parties_ in the '90s. Women supposedly became quite insatiable, discarding all concepts of chastity along with their clothing. Byron's dalliances with men and women both had been enhanced by his chemical experimentation.

"The objects around me became dazzling, and my hearing more acute. I never lost consciousness or awareness of my surroundings. I was aware of Dr. Snow attempting to administer pain– we have done this demonstration before – but I did not perceive it as pain, and was quite indifferent to the sensation.

Had I been using this substance recreationally, I might have behaved in a way some might consider inappropriate, even licentious, but of course in such company I restrained those impulses. That shows my will remained intact."

Victoria asked several more questions before she looked to Melbourne hopefully. He decided that he would seek out Snow later, with neither Victoria nor the other doctors present.

"Thank you, Dr. Snow. We will consider using these gases of yours. I will not begin my labour quite yet, so there is time for my husband and I to decide."

♛

A murmuration. Melbourne had first seen the remarkable sight on the day he arrived. At least once a day thereafter the rooks had put on their aerial display. He had witnessed the phenomenon before over the years, but not so frequently it could be called a common occurrence, never this large, and only once a murmuration of rooks. Starlings were more prone to engage in such communal exhibitions, yet each day which followed the first more of the black birds joined their fellows in synchronized flight. Victoria was transfixed by the spectacle. The rooks seemed uncannily able to position themselves where they might be seen from her vantage, high over the south lawn outside her window.

Melbourne did not spend every waking moment at her bedside. He pottered about in the Conservatory, most often with Liam at his side. His chief gardener, Richard Ruffet, walked with him up and down the rows of the great glass structure. They tagged branches on the towering pineapple trees to trim and devised a new scheme for grafting the stem of one particularly flavorful peach onto the hardier early-blooming root stock of another.

They admired the newest litter of small scent-hounds, beguiling little creatures with silky brown ears who already emitted a distinctive high-pitched _arooo_. Pocket Beagles, Ruffet called them; he had sufficient energy and eclectic enough interests that, besides bearing responsibility for the grounds at Brocket Hall, performed the same job at Panshanger, the Cowper estate and still find time to engage in his hobby of developing this new breed of dog.

The last thing they needed to add to their household, with the advent of a new infant, was a hound bred for the fields, but Melbourne had to admit the tiny pups were endearing.

Adagio showed every sign of spring fever and Melbourne took her out each day. The fields, while still too damp for planting, were well-drained and provided a good substitute for racing turf. The mare was beautifully responsive, needing no more than a flex of his thighs to guide her, and her gait so smooth that on more than one occasion he took Lily up before him in the saddle and let Liam ride pillion behind.

He took frequent breaks during his rambling, going to Victoria's bedside. He did little more than scrape the mud from his boots and wash his hands in the mudroom sink. She claimed to find his roughshod country appearance attractive, and even sniffed appreciatively at the whiff of horses and hounds and greenhouse mulch that clung to his old shirt.

If the children were not with him she would make room for him beside her on the bed. Melbourne would hold her and stroke her and kiss her while he recounted the quite ordinary things he had accomplished. Once when kissing nearly led to more, and he could not mistake her response, he had arched an eyebrow and looked her a question.

"No," she said regretfully. "Em told me that...an excess of pleasure can bring on uterine contractions."

"Well, ma'am? Shall we put it to the test? Dr. Ferguson took me aside to offer the same opinion. I think our good doctors are fed up with this country exile and are eager to have you safely delivered so they can return to London."

Melbourne did not miss Victoria's glance at the date at the top of her diary page.

"No, I think not," she only giggled, shifting her hips in quite a tantalizing manner. "I do not want to bring on my pains. But a few more days and we can see if the old wives' tale is true, if you wish."

He knew, of course he did, that she planned to present him with his child on the date of his own birth. It was a delightful, touching notion but not entirely practical, although he would not attempt to dissuade her. _Man plans, God laughs,_ Melbourne thought each time she made her intentions plain without knowing. _Does that apply to women too? My girl is no ordinary woman. _He was careful to maintain a sober expression but his lips twitched, wanting to smile.

Victoria not only planned; she contrived. The refusal to step foot out of bed for anything other than the most basic physiological needs was her primary stratagem, but she sent orders to the cook for only the blandest, most easily digested foods, pap she ordinarily despised. She sipped only tepid tea and watered sweet wine, insisted her maid wash her with lukewarm water and unscented soap and forbade the children from jostling her. Above all Victoria displayed a serene, Madonna-like air that must have taken every ounce of her substantial will to maintain.

Melbourne found it all sweetly amusing, her insistence that she would give birth on exactly the day she had chosen so many months before. He cared nothing for the day his child appeared, only that the baby be whole and healthy and, above all, that Victoria come through it without undue suffering. He shut of out his mind completely, the intrinsic risk to women in childbirth. The knowledge was always there, secured behind stout double-locked doors in his mind, but he and Victoria sensed each other's moods and emotions so surely that if he acknowledged his dread of what lay ahead, she would know it and her own fear increase.

_The gas, the volatile gas_. Melbourne was torn. Lily's birth had been nearly an afterthought, his premature daughter sliding out while Victoria lay unconscious from her gunshot wound. Liam had arrived after many tortuous hours, when her cousin Charlotte's fate was on everyone's mind.

This time they had decided together that Victoria would, as much as she could, adhere to her late husband's innovative beliefs. She would walk for as long as she could, rather than lay on her back in a bed. She would squat on a birthing stool, no matter how undignified the posture. Of the three doctors, Snow was most sympathetic to all her demands, and he particularly approved of Victoria's insistence on the elaborate hygienic precautions Albert had demanded. Hot water and lime and much scrubbing of hands - Melbourne thought of the late prince when he instructed the doctors and midwives. Nobody was to examine his wife without thorough cleansing of fingernails and hands and all must wear fresh bleached linen aprons and caps, even the Harley Street men in their fine suits.

Should he approve of the gas? It was not his decision to make, but Victoria would insist on hearing his opinion and weighing it with her own. Snow said labor would progress quite unimpeded, if when her pains became intractable she briefly inhaled the nitrous oxide. _Ether_ was in another category, and would be administered as a last resort if it became necessary to introduce forceps. But the nitrous would, if anything, support her body's vigorous contractions, by minimizing the resistance of her body in response to pain.

Recalling the hazy days of his young manhood, something nagged at Melbourne's mind. The exact details eluded him, but it involved a story that went round – perhaps one Caro brought home – of a particular young woman's surprising response to the gas.

And the rooks. A murmuration was nothing but one of the marvels of nature. And yet…and yet…his eclectic reading tormented him with a single mysterious word, unscientific, superstitious, from ancient Greek: _psychopomp_.

Such nonsense should have no place in the modern world, he told himself. Victoria is strong and healthy, with the best medical attention in the civilized world. She will be safely delivered of a healthy child and I will fall on my knees with gratitude, in a church if I must. _Only give me this_, he told Whoever might be listening and inclined to consider his pleas, _and I will never want for anything else_.

_Soon. For better or worse - and he had to believe the former - it will be soon. _


	32. Chapter 32

**_Lord Melbourne's Victory Lap_. It was a good-natured witticism coined by Mr. Dickens, the headline on Monday's Daily News, and soon on everyone's lips.**

**His pride and joy were not begrudged; glasses were raised all across Britain. Suddenly every Dubliner who had once crossed his path claimed long-standing bonds of friendship to the Queen's consort. His name had been added to the Common Prayer on the occasion of their marriage, and every country vicar could report renewed gusto in the blessings called down upon the heads of the Royal family in celebration of new life.**

**Everyone loves a love story and theirs, so unique, resonated in the hearts and minds of all good Englishmen and women. Schoolgirls sighing over headmasters found hope in the tale of their young sovereign wedding the gentleman of her choice, regardless of the years between them. Staid, respectable lawyers and bankers, comfortably resigned to a bloodless decline, rediscovered in Lord Melbourne's example a manly passion they had nearly allowed to burn out.**

**♛**

Melbourne's new son came into the world shortly after three o'clock in the morning on the 15th day of March, 1847. He had only briefly peeked beyond the screen, barely allowing the midwives to hastily cover Victoria with a sheet for modesty's sake. Even then, mere minutes after the ordeal of giving birth, her face glowed with a triumphant smile.

"Happy birthday, Lord M," she had said.

He was given only a brief glimpse of the child, still unwashed, wrapped in a towel that the midwife drew back to show him the sex. Then he was ushered out of the room with the State witnesses, Grey and Pepys.

After weeks of self-prescribed seclusion, confined to her bed, Victoria had descended the gracefully curving staircase at Brocket Hall the evening before. She was gloriously, magnificently draped in royal blue satin, resplendent in diamonds, glowing with health and vigor.

Melbourne had extended an invitation to all those in the neighborhood awaiting the birth. The long dining table, his grandfather's pride, seated more than fifty and every chair was occupied. John Russell's Home Secretary and the Chancellor were housed in Brocket Hall; the others, including Victoria's more distant relations, had been offered hospitality by the Marquess of Salisbury, Melbourne's nearest neighbor of suitable rank.

The Duchess of Kent sat on his left and Elizabeth Sackville-West, Countess De La Warr, on his right. Victoria presided over the table with a charming display of animation, all starchy hauteur absent for the occasion. Melbourne kept as close an eye on her as he dared, without betraying concern. In truth, he felt no unusual anxiety, his tension allayed by her own vibrant energy.

After dinner she called for music and dancing. Victoria loved dancing, and her girth posed no insurmountable obstacle – several ladies present boasted a larger waistline, Mr. Dickens remarked in a humorous aside – when Melbourne led her onto the floor.

Dickens had invited himself, presumably – at least Melbourne had no recollection of doing so – but he was amusing and useful, and Victoria did not protest his presence. The _Gazette_ would publish an official announcement, but Dickens would provide the color in his own popular daily. They had long ago implicitly agreed to give him the glimpses of palace life behind closed doors his readership clamored for, and in return his reputation as a populist provocateur would ensure essentially favorable coverage without overt pandering.

Melbourne knew what she was about, and received unilateral reassurance that Victoria's strategy posed no risk of harm to either her or their child. The baby was fully formed and ready to make an appearance, so said all three physicians in attendance, and if the queen wished to do her best to move things along on the date she had chosen, they would not stand in her way.

Victoria waltzed with Melbourne several times, and then he watched while she enthusiastically took part in reels and country dances. He could only admire her grace and nimble movements, encumbered as she was by a full-term pregnancy.

The clock had just struck midnight when she found him.

"I think," she had panted, her big blue eyes merry above a grimace of discomfort. "I must retire soon."

Melbourne thought he saw a new stiffness in her bearing and unfamiliar tension on her face, but if what he suspected were true her excellent posture and habitual dignity hid it well.

"I will take you up and ask your mother to bid everyone good night on our behalf."

"Not Mama," Victoria gasped, wincing. "She'll excite everyone. Ask Emily, please. Mama can come up with us, so she does not flutter about down here."

Melbourne could only marvel at the manner in which matters proceeded exactly as Victoria planned. She was undressed and put to bed, and the birthing apparatus which had been assembled and waiting was swiftly put into place. Her pains were hard when they came, and he rubbed her back and murmured encouragement while she squeezed his hand and groaned. She was vocal throughout and cursed several times, words that surely no one had ever spoken in her presence, but to his relief she manifested none of the fatalistic dread which had permeated her first experience of labor. This child showed none of Liam's reluctance to make an appearance either, making quick work of things. Victoria knew when it was time, even before the midwife's examination, and Melbourne was relegated to the small sitting room where the ministers waited to attest to the birth.

She would be crouching on the birthing stool that had been found in an attic and refurbished. Albert had been beside her six years before, when Liam came into the world, and as much as she despised the entire animal nature of childbirth, Victoria vividly remembered his lifesaving intervention. She had steadfastly refused to attempt to push out the baby from a prone position this time, firmly citing the revelatory success of that first experience. To anyone who dared protest the indignity of a lady squatting like a medieval peasant or black African native, she replied that the entire process of childbirth was undignified in the extreme and if such a position got the business over with more quickly, it was well worth the sacrifice.

Melbourne got queasy when he dwelled upon the details of her ordeal, and pushed such thoughts away with determined effort. Her cries were audible and near-continuous, but they had the sound of arduous manual exertion rather than severe distress and culminated in a final keening wail.

The door, when it opened, admitted a midwife coiffed in starched white headdress. She inclined her head but would not deign to curtsy, conscious of her own prestige at such a time.

"Her Majesty has safely delivered a boy, my lords," she said, already turning to go back inside. Melbourne had gripped the edge of the door as it was about to close.

"Let me in," he had commanded, hearing a plea in his voice instead.

Those few moments when they exchanged a single loving glance, that brief glimpse at his child. Then, exile again until, just when he thought he could not wait a moment longer, the baby was brought out. This time his child was clean, the small face rosy and swathed in soft blankets. Melbourne held out his arms and took the tiny bundle.

He showed the boy to the ministers, who barely acknowledged their prince before yawning and trudging off to their beds. The Duchess of Kent cooed and won a change of expression that she jubilantly declared to be a first smile. She walked beside him down the staircase, where those guests who remained had aligned themselves in two rows.

Melbourne wanted nothing more than to go to Victoria, unless it was to be alone with his new child. But when he scanned the eager faces, men and women he had known most of his life, he saw that they felt genuine happiness on his behalf. He walked slowly past each, pausing to show off the baby, and with each step felt something expand within. An unfamiliar buoyancy of spirit lifted him up, so his shoulders pulled back and he carried himself with infinitesimally greater pride in himself than ever before.

The presentation of this little _prince-with-no-name_ was conducted by order of precedence, with Victoria's uncle and cousins at the head of the queue, Emily and Henry Temple halfway along and Charles Dickens standing beside a Gazette scribe at the very end. The irrepressible Dickens winked at him broadly, making Melbourne chuckle.

"Any hints on the name, William?" he asked coyly. "Very well, odds are 3:1 in favor of George, 5:1 Leopold and Edward, and the longshot outliers, Louis and Frederick somewhere about 12:1. Shall I lay a wager on your behalf?"

The formalities complete, Melbourne had accepted his mother-in-law's affectionate peck and was left standing alone in the corridor. He glanced at the still-closed door to Victoria's bedchamber, where they would be washing her and making her comfortable. The baby hadn't stirred or cried, seemingly content to be held in his father's arms. Every chamber in their corridor was occupied, save for one at the very end.

Caro's room was shrouded in dust covers. Once, several years prior, Emily had made a start at cleaning out her effects but the furniture and hangings remained. Melbourne chose a chintz-covered armchair and settled himself, heaving a sigh of relief at being off his feet. Then he peeled back the soft lambs' wool shawl and looked closely at his new child.

"Welcome to the world, little man," he whispered.

The baby appeared to be focused and watchful, as Melbourne met that serious gaze. _An old soul_, he thought, marveling with a slight shiver at the look of wisdom in those dark blue eyes. The merest suggestion of eyebrows, but thick fringe of lashes. Smudge of a nose and pursed rosebud lips. Tiny, perfectly formed fingers with shell-pink nails, just now clutching the edge of his blanket in curled fists.

_So new! And perfect!_ Melbourne didn't care that a child was born somewhere every minute of every hour of every day; it was an unbroken chain of fecundity which ensured the survival of Man. _This_ child was a miracle, like no other, and in the moment even the most fundamental fact of nature seemed as though it had to be a divine act of creation. That the simple act of intercourse might result in a perfect new being struck Melbourne as impossible; surely it was this, the act of procreation, which gave rise to the need for religion.

All of the reasons why he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be holding this divine scrap of flesh and blood in his arms, passed through his mind swiftly, unworthy of consideration. If the Almighty, Who or Whatever that Being might be construed, put him here with his son in his arms, then who was any mere mortal to question the means?

Melbourne remembered the dreams, that haunting sense of another world, another place, another life. As if intuiting his superstitious dread of that place, the baby stirred and made a soft mewling sound. One small fist found the back of his hand, and when his child's silken fingers touched his skin Melbourne felt a tingling warmth that suffused his entire being.

"Well, my boy, shall we go to your mother? And then meet your brother and sister?" Melbourne continued talking, a patter of inane one-sided conversation which seemed to please the baby. That little face did not smile quite yet – his grandmother was allowed her quaint delusion – but it came close, Melbourne thought, when he kissed his son's brow, then each downy cheek.

Victoria's hair had been brushed, and she was dressed in a soft cotton gown. A nurse took the baby and turned her broad back toward Melbourne. When she stepped away, Victoria was holding their baby to her breast. She was modestly draped in a shawl but the baby had clearly latched on, to judge by the less-than-beatific expression on Victoria's face.

Melbourne did not quite smile, only narrowed his eyes with sympathy and appreciation for her sacrifice. Breast-feeding did not appeal to Victoria; in fact, she found the entire subject as distasteful as her initial experience had been, when her first son was born. He _did _sympathize with her, and appreciated her effort even more for her lack of enthusiasm.

"May I?" he whispered, gently touching the fringe on her shawl. Victoria met his eyes with a rueful smile and nodded consent. Melbourne lifted it away so he could see the baby, both little fists kneading her like a kitten as he suckled intently.

That feeling again, a juxtaposition of this scene, throbbing with life, and that other dreamscape world of his nightmares, but this time he felt…_victorious? Jubilant? Triumphant? _Over all the early naysayers, certainly; and all of those, through the years, who had considered him unmanned by his wife's public infidelities. _Or was that only me?_ Melbourne wondered idly, _who thought I was less than a man?_ Yes, to all of it, but more, to that bleak fog-covered landscape of what-might-have-been.

"Thank you," he said fervently, his eyes filling with tears. "Thank you, Victoria. For everything."


	33. Chapter 33

Victoria clung to the sight of that smile. She forced her shattered senses to hone in on the warmth in his beautiful eyes, to observe each crystalline tear as it formed and then began its journey down the planes of his face. Tears of joy, she knew, and it was enough to offset the inchoate misery she felt. Victoria gritted her teeth and tolerated strange hands rubbing her breasts with salve meant to soothe the stinging. Those same hands massaged her stomach, examined her private places, poked, prodded, wiped away what remained of her _self_ along with the bloody discharge.

_For him_, she told herself through gritted teeth. Clean sheets, neatly pressed, smelling faintly of laundry soap and sunshine, fresh folded flannels between her legs, none of it could take away the humiliation she felt. Her body was no longer hers; it was a foul vehicle and she thought she would never feel clean and whole again.

She endured the gnawing on her breasts, surrendering sore, grossly distended nipples into that gaping maw of a mouth. As bad as it was to serve as a milch cow, it was a thousand times worse to do so under Melbourne's besotted gaze. She smiled until her face ached, pretending to feel the happiness they all expected. For _him_, she told herself through gritted teeth. _Let the creature drain me dry so I'm only a husk_. _It makes _him_ happy and I haven't the energy to protest. _

The first days she pretended to sleep, feigning grogginess when they brought the baby to nurse. Melbourne invariably appeared soon after, no matter the hour. He would watch with that fatuous expression she detested, then eagerly lift the child onto his shoulder. The nurses were shocked at first, and uncertain, but he proved himself eminently capable of patting and rubbing, rocking and cooing. He was rewarded by the obligatory belches and never minded when regurgitated milk stained one of his fine broadcloth coats. Victoria would keep her gaze carefully averted, biding her time until they left her in peace.

"You are tired, sweetheart," he crooned once, cradling her head with infinite care. "You have earned your rest. Did the gas provide some relief?"

Victoria's brows came together in a frown, and she felt the first stirrings of angst. Rather than betray herself and invite further questions, she shrugged.

"I don't remember."

Melbourne had left her with obvious reluctance. Victoria might have relented and asked him to remain, except it all took so very much effort – accepting his display of affection and returning it in kind, and above all remembering to be happy about the baby – and she felt quite overcome by with a sort of mental malaise. Before surrendering to sleep she considered his final question.

_Had_ the gas had any effect? They'd held the rubber mask to her face while she squatted on that stool, pushing. _Had_ she been torn asunder in fact, or did it only feel that way when the infant's head began its final descent? It stung when she made water, and everything down there felt battered and sore but overall Victoria decided she'd come through relatively unscathed.

That lack of significant tearing was one more benefit Snow attributed to his volatile gas concoction. The _nitrous oxide_ had transported Victoria out of herself, so that her muscles did not resist the birthing process. _Where_ it had taken her was all a muddle in her mind; not a place, but rather an altered state of being, where nothing seemed to matter very much. Snow had talked about euphoria. _Hardly euphoria, or even pleasure. A numbing of the emotions rather than the flesh._ Her body had done what it needed to do, while her mind was distant and detached. _Had there been more to it? Did I forget_? Victoria struggled to align her memories sequentially. _No, _she decided_, there were no gaps in recall_. _It felt as though I was free of my body, distant, detached, unaffected. I floated somewhere above, looking down, so that nothing much mattered._

Impossibly weary, Victoria lay back and closed her eyes, willing sleep to come.

♛

"He's a rather hideous child," she remarked to her mother once. She was sure her mother, so quick to criticize everything and everyone, would agree. She would not dream of saying such a thing to Lord M, of course; her aversion to the child was only one of these new feelings she kept to herself. "He looks like a frog."

Her mother began by mocking that assessment, but stopped laughing when she realized Victoria was serious.

"Drina, this baby looks like any other. I could say he resembles you, or Lord Melbourne, but really, what weeks-old child truly looks like anyone? He is certainly not _hideous_." Her mother had searched Victoria's face, her own concern apparent.

"Drina, vas ist los?" Instantly the Duchess was all concern.

"Nicht ist los, alles kaput," Victoria choked, turning away, casting off her mother's restraining hand. "Nein, verdammt, es ist gar nichts in Ordnung!"

She regretted confiding in her mother, but there was no one else to whom she could voice her confusion. Clearly, there was _no one_ to whom she could confess the awful thoughts that tormented her, the constant slow burn of anger layered over a deep well of something like despair.

Several weeks had passed since the birth of her child. Victoria's recovery had been indecently swift. Ferguson had decamped to London with the other physicians, leaving a single midwife and several nursing sisters in charge. Before he left he reported that everything down below was mending as it should, and even made indelicate reference to her muscle tone and the youthful tautness of delicate flesh.

They no longer brought the child every few hours. Just when her milk began flowing in earnest and she began looking forward to its arrival for relief from the fullness in her breasts, the child began refusing to suckle. He stopped the energetic nursing that so repulsed her, stopped kneading her breasts with his walnut-sized fists. No amount of prodding and teasing, no dangling of her distended nipple above his mouth, could persuade him once his mind was made up. The fact that he had rejected _her_, that her sacrifice had gone unacknowledged, made her dislike him even more.

The first time that thought came, fully formed and unbidden, Victoria had gasped in horror, dismayed at her own lack of maternal feeling. She did not gush over infants and small children as some women did, but to actively dislike one's own newborn child was surely unnatural. The awareness, once fully realized, only sank her further into silent despair.

Melbourne found a wet nurse on his own land, the daughter of a tenant farmer, hastily married to a young man from York who promptly decamped, leaving his pregnant bride on her parents' doorstep. She was pleased to accept Melbourne's generous offer, conditioned only upon her ability to bring her own child with her.

Melbourne still came to her room as often as she allowed. Victoria had begun viewing him almost objectively, taking in his height and the breadth of his shoulders, the chest on which she had so often pillowed her head. Victoria felt an odd detachment, but with him her affection ran so deep that it required no effort to show him the love he was accustomed to seeing.

When he kissed her she held him longer than was strictly necessary. She sniffed the bergamot and lime Cologne water he favored, wanted to lap at his clean-shaved jaw with the tip of her tongue. Anything, to stir up some emotion but instead she felt only…flat.

He attempted to amuse her with conversation, small witticisms and commentary on his doings about the estate. Victoria expected that her rigid posture and stony silence might quell his cheerful demeanor, half-hoping, half-fearing to see that constant smile fade. Something about him – everything about him, if she was honest with herself – triggered an irritation of nerves. He was so damned untouched, she thought. Pleased with himself, pleased with his new child. Doting father to Liam and Lily as well, endlessly patient, attentive and engaged. Tall and elegant in his town clothes to receive envoys from Whitehall. Ruggedly handsome in his country attire, loose canvas trousers and billowing untucked shirts. Never bloated, or bleeding, leaking fluid from every orifice. Never trapped in a body no longer his own. _Of course it is all well and good for him to be so damned pleased_, she thought viciously, _while I am reduced to an animal state._

♛

"I want to go back to London," Victoria told Melbourne the following day.

The malaise still weighed her down in spirit, but body and mind were restless and longing for distraction. She no longer took a tray in her room, unable to bear confinement and forced inactivity, and decided she needed a return to gainful occupation.

That time at Brocket Hall should have been their idyll, a rare opportunity to live as any ordinary family. Instead, Victoria felt perpetually out-of-sorts. Her nerves were on edge, so that she was irritated by anything or nothing, snapping at her mother, her children, the servants and even Lord M, battling a constant heaviness of spirit that threatened to find relief in tearful outburst.

Victoria was working at the desk, reading every document, lining out entire sentences with harsh strokes of her pen, writing her own responses in the margins. Melbourne had been doing just as she asked, acting as her proxy, but all at once resentment at that usurpation of her prerogative infuriated her. She knew it was unfair and irrational, but logic was powerless against her roiling temper.

Liam sat atop several thick volumes on a ladderback chair. His stuffed dog was under his arm, but he watched and listened attentively. Victoria had begun asking for him, telling herself that as her heir his education in kingship could not begin too soon. The real reason she wanted his companionship was to compensate for her abject failure as a mother, a truth she grimly acknowledged to herself.

Melbourne strode in on long booted legs, bringing with him the good clean smell of the outdoors. Horses and leather, she thought, sniffing appreciatively. He kissed her and tousled Liam's hair.

_You love him_, Victoria told herself sternly. But it didn't feel like it just then. She poked and prodded, like one did a sore tooth, wanting to stir up some semblance of feeling.

"Shall we have tea first?" he responded mildly, with that slight quirk to his mouth hinting at a hope she might laugh.

Victoria tightened her lips, refusing to acknowledge the gentle tease. Melbourne rang the bell. They waited in silence until a footman trundled in the tea cart with its selection of cakes and sandwiches.

"Come, my boy, let's go find Nanny and your sister and –" 

"Let him stay," Victoria said sharply. A command, nearly a rebuke, most definitely not a request. 

She knew then that finally she had struck a nerve. Melbourne's generous mouth was pinched into a straight line and his lovely grey eyes narrowed. Liam looked from one parent to the other uncertainly, sensing an unfamiliar tension in the air.

"_I_ am returning to London," Victoria snapped, surprising herself. "You may remain at Brocket Hall with the nurses and – and the new baby. Lily too, if you wish. Liam will go with me."

Melbourne's eyes flashed and a flush spread across his cheekbones. Victoria knew that, after all her carping and short tempers, she had succeeded in making him angry. The knowledge filled her with satisfaction.

"We will discuss it later," he said, glancing at their child. Victoria watched, fuming, as he mixed a drop of tea with liberal quantities of milk and sugar for the boy.

For Liam's sake, Victoria feigned interest as Melbourne spoke of the spring lambs, of a new foal on their near neighbor's farm and the new Irish laborers' camp that had sprung up during the winter near Wheathampstead. When he referenced _Irish_ it reminded her of a grievance she wished to air.

"What were you thinking when you wrote that letter to Sultan Abdulmejid?" she demanded, almost wincing at her shrewish tone.

"I merely expressed our thanks for his generosity," Melbourne replied. "£10,000 pounds is a very substantial gift."

"We won't allow it. What on earth were you thinking?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand…ma'am."

"You know that I donated £2,000 to Irish relief from my personal funds? What on earth would people say, if the Ottoman Empire sends five times as much?" It was a rhetorical question; her use of the singular pronoun was a deliberate slight.

Victoria refused to meet his eyes, but the frown on her small son's face gave her a qualm. _One more reason for self-loathing_. _I really am a despicable creature!_

"Do you want to talk about it?" Melbourne asked quietly as soon as they were alone.

"About the Sultan? No; we must ask our advisers to communicate with the ambassador, telling him to reduce his generosity to a sum less than that of my gift."

"Do you want to tell me what's wrong, Victoria?" he repeated, his voice kind.

Victoria felt deflated. She had watched while he struggled to restrain a rare flash of temper, and was disappointed when he succeeded. She _wanted_ him to be angry, so she could be angry too; wanted an outlet for the free-floating anger that seemed to boil in her blood. Better than the lethargy, that sense of unbearable, unsupportable weight which stole her breath and threatened to choke her with unshed tears.

She suddenly longed to crawl onto his lap and bury her face in the soft folds of his shirt. There was no reason she should feel so generally unhappy. _Ah, but you have ample cause_, said that critical inner voice which tormented her with harsh truths.

Victoria was ashamed of her inability to feel the slightest tenderness for the new baby, ashamed of her vanity and especially, ashamed and frightened by this sudden absence of all feeling for this man she loved more than life. But _love_ was just a word, devoid of resonance, in her present unfortunate state.

"No," she murmured. "It's nothing. There is nothing to say."

Victoria thought he would take her words as dismissal, and retreat from her presence with his customary regard for her wishes. She held her breath, waiting, wanting to be left alone, hoping he would not grant that particular wish.

"There damn well _is_ something to say!" Victoria jumped a little, startling at the sound of someone, anyone, much less Lord M, _shouting_ at her. He jerked the packet of letters she'd been holding out of her hand and slapped them against the side of the desk. As if that hadn't provided adequate relief, Melbourne picked up an inkwell and launched it into the hearth.

"Talk to me, Victoria. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

"I don't _know_ what's wrong!" Victoria shouted in return. It felt good to shout, she realized. "Nothing or – or everything! I don't like our baby and don't like you and above all I don't like _myself!_"

Aghast at the words, Victoria's mouth dropped open. Melbourne closed the distance between them and pulled her roughly against his chest.

The dam broke then and she loosed a flood of tears, soaking his shirt to the skin. He said nothing, letting her cry, only stroking her hair.

Victoria would not know, later, how long she cried, or that she could produce so many tears. She surrendered to the luxury of those tears, after so many weeks' refusal to cry. Her nose ran and she used his pristine neck-cloth to wipe it.

Finally Victoria had no more tears to shed; her breath came in hiccuping gasps, but she was quiet except for that.

"Tell me," he prompted again, leading her to an oversize armchair where he had once fallen asleep by the fire, in those long-ago days of bachelor solitude. Victoria felt herself tipped off-balance, pulled down onto his lap. She did not try to right herself, trusting him to settle her safely in place.

Victoria tried to find words, gasping. She wanted to tell him everything, or as much as she understood. She told him of the pervasive sadness, and acknowledged her constant dark mood. She even described the strange intrusive thoughts and peculiar visions. There was only one sin left to confess.

"Did you tell Ferguson how you felt, before he left for London? Or Snow?"

"No," Victoria answered, shaking her head so that her hair, already loosened, fell around her face. _Stringy and unkempt_, came the voice of that unceasingly critical other self. _A slattern, an unfit, unnatural mother, slut, adulteress…_

"Then I would like your permission to write him. I will do it regardless, but I would prefer your consent."

"Why on earth -? If anything, I should be talking to a spiritual adviser. I am – you don't know –"

"You're right, I don't know, and can never know, what changes a woman goes through while giving birth. I am familiar with melancholia, my dear – you will grant me that?"

Victoria understood; her gentle, wise, strong Lord M had long battled that oppression of the mind, the heart and the soul. It was better since their marriage, but still the dark moods overtook him from time to time.

"Melancholia looks for a reason, because the mind wants to make sense of it. But looking around you for a cause will only spoil everything good if you let it."

Victoria listened intently, watching his lips form the words. It seemed important she comprehend what he was telling her.

Melbourne stroked her cheek with his finger, and Victoria felt a little thrill at his touch. _So I'm not entirely dead to affection_, she realized.

"I would like to consult Ferguson. He's made something of a study of the mind and it surely can't hurt to write him. Whether it's linked to childbirth, or the effects of that ill-named _laughing gas, _or due to some other unknown imbalance of humors, you must trust that this mood will pass. And trust me. Take my hand and I'll walk through the darkness with you. My little love, you don't have to go through this alone."

Victoria straightened her spine and filled her lungs. It will be hard, she thought, the most difficult thing I've ever done, but I must tell him the truth.

"There is something else," she muttered, head bowed, heart heavy with shame.

"William," she began haltingly. "There's more. I – am – I don't – " _His handsome face, those gentle loving eyes…how can I say it?_

"When I tell you – if you no longer want me as your wife, we can separate quietly. You know I'd never keep you from Prince William, although of course he must remain with me as my heir. Lily and – and the new baby – are yours. I will make you a generous financial settlement and –"

"Victoria," Melbourne's voice was low and solemn, but Victoria thought there was a tremulous note underneath that could be humor or heartbreak, she was not entirely certain which. "Before we hammer out the details of our divorce, perhaps you should tell me what you wish to confess."

Victoria hung her head, no longer able to meet his eyes.

"I – I don't – I _can't_ love the baby. I don't even _like_ him. It's not his fault, poor little soul, but he knows it – that's why he stopped wanting my breast – and he dislikes me too."

When Melbourne didn't respond immediately, Victoria tensed her muscles, preparing to rise. Preparing to be thrown from his lap, from the encircling protection of his embrace.

"My poor darling," he said finally, and his voice was still tender. "How terrible it must have been for you, to keep all that inside."

"My sweet brave girl, of course you love him. Love can be an act of will. You tried to overcome your dread of feeding him. You took that on, despite your own disinclination, to please me. Didn't you?"

Melbourne lifted her chin, gently encouraging her to raise her eyes. Victoria nodded, cheeks burning.

"He has a good wet nurse now, a healthy country girl. There are many ways of being a good mother, as many ways as there are mothers and infants, I daresay. My own mother depended on nurses, as do most females of our rank. I doubt she ever saw one of us out of our swaddling clothes and yet we knew she loved us and adored her in turn."

Victoria sniffed and wiped her nose yet again on the end of Melbourne's silk neck cloth.

"Will you do something for me? Can we settle on a name? We've said _he_ and _him_ long enough."

_Is that all? _Victoria felt a surge of relief that at least there was something she _could_ do.

"Your son must be named for your family. Frederick? Yes. Frederick. Frederick George Peniston Lamb."

_Let it please him_, she prayed fervently. It's all I have to give.

"Frederick," Melbourne repeated, tasting it, rolling the name on his tongue. "Freddy. Yes. And George might as easily be for your uncle and grandfather. Peniston, on the other hand…perhaps Leopold or Louis instead, or even Charles, for your cousin Charlotte? Lamb, I must refuse, lest your uncles accuse me of founding a rival dynasty. Yours must remain the House of Hanover. But _Freddy_ suits him well, my darling girl. Shall we tell him together?"

♛

Melbourne settled Victoria on the sofa and covered her legs with a shawl. With one small hand tucked beneath her cheek and eyelids red and puffy, she looked so like an unhappy child herself that his heart swelled with emotion. He picked up Liam's stuffed dog and tucked it in beside her. Then he retrieved the near-empty inkwell and began a letter to Robert Ferguson.

** _"The Queen has heard that you have paid much attention to mental disease, and is afraid she is about to lose her mind! She sees visions and hears sounds, and is much troubled. She has been weeping and is wretched…." 1_ **

* * *

** _ 1  _ ** _Excerpt from a letter Prince Albert wrote to the Queen's obstetrician Ferguson shortly after she gave birth. Victoria famously suffered from severe postpartum depression following several of her pregnancies. _


	34. Chapter 34

_Melbourne Hall_

It was not to be expected that she would rebound overnight. Melbourne reminded himself of that whenever his own sense of frustrated helplessness edged toward impatience. The only remedy was time.

They returned to London, not the very next morning but within a week. That they would return as a family or not at all was one point on which he stood firm. Victoria thrust herself headlong into work. She wrote exhaustively, pestering Russell's ministry with questions, cautions, instructions and complaints. Canada, Jamaica, India and the Orient – no corner of the Empire escaped her scrutiny.

He might have – no, _should have_ – warned her against the folly of denying her Irish subjects the benefit of Mohammedan largesse. Nothing remained a secret for long in the diplomatic world, and he knew history would judge her harshly for that spiteful prohibition. Within weeks of their return to Buckingham Palace, Melbourne was confronted with rumors that the Sultan, his generosity rejected, was provisioning ships to deliver in-kind relief.

Ferguson attended them, and his academic approach was exactly what Victoria needed. He spoke forthrightly, without any hint of condescension, as if to a colleague. He described the work of a French psychiatrist, Jean-Etienne Esquirol, and an American named McDonald, each of whom had made a careful study of puerperal melancholy. Sadness, an agitation of the spirit, restlessness, sleeplessness, and irritability – Melbourne mentally ticked off each of the symptoms manifested in Victoria.

The Frenchman recommended careful nursing, tepid baths and purgatives; his American cohort added heavy doses of opium to the course of care. Those were the most common treatments for a wide range of ailments, and Melbourne was relieved when Victoria refused narcotic relief.

"Work to occupy my mind, and exercise in the fresh air to combat the restlessness and curb my intemperateness," she said briskly. "You have reassured me that I am not in danger of losing my mind."

When he was tempted to do too much, to indulge her freaks of temper, to coddle and console, Melbourne reasoned with himself. It would do no good to treat her like an emotional invalid, he concluded, nor, if he was to be the ballast she needed to regain her moorings, was it helpful to immerse himself so completely that he lost himself in the process.

Victoria urged him to resume a routine, making his rounds in Whitehall, dropping into this minister's chambers, join that MP for luncheon and yet another for dinner at the Reform Club.

"Go," she prodded. "You must, for me as well. I am confined here in this gilded cage like a strange captive bird and depend upon you to bring me news of the world beyond."

Melbourne did as he was bid, only half-heartedly the first time, but by the time Birdcage Walk was behind him and the scaffolding of the new House of Lords loomed ahead his spirits were restored. He was hailed countless times, received the felicitations from so many old friends and new, jollied out of the remnants of his second-hand fugue, and warmed by the genuine good wishes extended by all.

Lord Brougham greeted him with relish and pulled him into the Lords' coffee room. Melbourne resigned himself to hearing his old colleague expound on a hard-won and presumably final victory. Brougham had advocated for a bill abolishing imprisonment for debt since '34, had very nearly prevailed in '38, and again in '45 and '46.

"We finally cured the remaining obstacle," Brougham chortled. "Campbell went on record opining that now the judges of the new Small Debts Courts are persons of great learning and ability, eminently capable of taking a sworn affidavit. The thing should be done, a closed matter now. Only sworn testimony that a debtor intends to flee the country can result in a warrant."

Coffee was brought, and a selection of the unappetizing sausage rolls and pastries Melbourne recalled vividly.

"So – fatherhood at our age, Melbourne! I must congratulate you to be sure. Who would've thought it?"

"Indeed…" Melbourne intended to say no more, thinking of Brougham's two girls, both of them dead and buried before they reached their majority.

"Go on then, tell me how the princeling goes on. Will there be a public christening? There should be no difficulty getting funding from the Commons – the people are hungry for a spectacle and your little Queen has denied them thus far."

"I suppose there will," Melbourne answered hesitantly. "The Queen wants to bring him to the Cathedral. Full pomp and ceremony."

"Heir and the spare," Brougham said, making a face. "What'll be his title? Have you settled on the names?"

"The Queen has decided on a title. He will take her father's and become the Duke of Kent. As for names…Frederick, it seems. The rest will be announced in due time, Henry. He's a fine healthy specimen, and the best-natured baby you'll ever see."

"You need a good'un. Not that I hear anything amiss about the little Prince, even if the boy has something of a stutter. They often grow out of that, although you never did, eh, William? Not when you had to stand up in front of the House and…"

They were interrupted by more back-slapping well-wishers, and it was soon decided that a party would adjourn to the Athenaeum Club on Pall Mall.

Surrounded by his congenial fellows, Melbourne felt more of the recent heaviness of spirit dissipate. Over a fine porter, then beefsteaks and rum, he talked more expansively about the baby. He was hardly the first of his cohort to begin a second family late in life – some were on their third – and shared with these men an interest in their offspring which they would have laughed to scorn in their youth.

He couldn't help but smile, then beam with pride, as he recounted the minutiae of Freddy's first month. None of the gloomy tension which Victoria felt had affected the baby one whit. No matter how much Melbourne wished it had been he who penetrated her distress, it was Freddy himself who seduced his mother. Well-fed and contented, making no demands, the baby always had a gummy smile at the ready when Victoria dutifully held him. Melbourne had watched the miracle unfold, had seen the tension imperceptibly drain away as she responded to the child's trusting regard. She might have begun by putting on a show for her ladies, dutifully attending when the infant was brought in, but he saw for himself how she let down her guard. The child's innocent charm was impossible to resist.

The night she broke down and confessed all she felt had been the beginning of something but her return to normalcy was by no means liner. There had been the night they fought over her decision to resume breast-feeding, an argument more heated than Melbourne would have thought possible. It still pained him to remember the threats they had exchanged – she, to have him removed bodily from _her_ palace, and he, to take the children and leave, with all the unwanted speculation that would entail. In the end, Lehzen had put a stop to it by bluntly taking Melbourne's side but the ugly words would not be easily forgotten.

"…the wrong Member to introduce at such a gathering…" Melbourne realized he had been wool-gathering, and missed the punch line. Edward Bulwer-Lytton explained the general hilarity by recounting the story of a newly sworn MP from one of the northern counties who had lifted his shirt and dropped his placket in response to alleged taunting by a fashionable matron, displaying his _member_ just as a Bishop's wife made her entrance.

♛

Melbourne returned well after dark, taking the stairs two at a time in a sudden burst of energy. A footman relieved him of hat, coat and walking stick and the hall page directed him to the music room where the queen and her company could be found.

Victoria was at the piano, playing for her own enjoyment. Frederick Lamb looked over shoulder, leaning heavily on his cane. Billy Cameron, outfitted in a well-cut black tie and tail coat, turned the pages of her music and one of Melbourne's equerries tapped out the rhythm against the forearm of his companion.

Melbourne paused long enough to take mental note of the others present – two of Victoria's ladies-in-waiting, Edward Blore, the architect who had overseen the remodeling of the East Wing, and George Von Wettin, Blore's colleague, instrumental in the newly-rebuilt Houses of Parliament.

Victoria slid her eyes from the sheet music long enough to smile up at him, and Melbourne quickly assessed her mood. It was nearly impossible to read anything on her face, so closely did she guard her true thoughts in company, but he thought that the subtle signs of tension so often present in the past month were absent.

Most of her pregnancy weight had melted off, and if she complained that her waist was nearly two full inches larger, her features were more refined than previously. All of the childish roundness was gone, leaving an elegant jawline and winged cheekbones. Her pretty eyes had been dusted with the light bruising of the tears she tried to hide, the nights she lay awake in the dark, but he thought that tonight nothing marred the smooth creaminess of her skin.

_Perhaps_…he pushed the unseemly thought away, but didn't entirely close the door to possibility.

Melbourne inclined his head, inviting his brother to step away.

"How goes it at the Hall?" he asked, taking Champagne from a footman's silver tray.

"We've certainly had some wicked weather this month across the whole Country and Derbyshire has been no exception. Despite the wet conditions Melbourne Hall had soldiered on. I put Adine on a Channel packet this morning and took the train to London. I was eager to see my nephew."

"Your godson," Melbourne reminded. "Adine didn't want to accompany you?"

"She'll come in time for the christening, of course. Leopold and Louisa will arrive in a fortnight and Adine will be here to greet them."

"Tell me more about improvements at the Hall. Have I told you lately how damned well you're doing, bringing that old pile back to life?"

"Now I suppose all I do, I'll do with your Freddy in mind. A second son rarely has anything of his father's, but in your case…"

"Liam can't inherit; his birthright is –" Melbourne spread his hands wide, the gesture unmistakable. Liam would inherit the Crown.

"Currently there is a carpet of snowdrops in the Arboretum, but it won't be long until the poppies return. We've restored the Wall, and in early February it was smothered with small, star-shaped, light pink flowers. Adine brought enough in to fill the rooms with scent in the winter months."

Melbourne listened to Fred describe the gardens and grounds he had brought back to life, with an infusion of income from the Dukedom he had so long resisted. He thought ahead to the warm months and the Court calendar already filled with ceremonies over which Victoria must preside, State visits they were obliged to make. Belgium was high on that list, but perhaps a week in Derbyshire was not out of the question. Take his son – _all_ of the children – to their father's official Seat.

For all intents and purposes, Frederick Lamb was master at Melbourne Hall but the title was necessarily passed from father to eldest son. Liam was not his by law, thus Freddy would inherit the entailed property.

"Shall we slip away and say goodnight to the little rascal?" Melbourne asked, already knowing the answer would be yes.

Since Victoria had permanently relinquished his feeding to the wet-nurse – and there was that unwanted reminder again, making Melbourne wince – the baby's cradle was moved to a modest chamber between those of his brother and sister.

Only a single oil lamp burned, the nightlight without which Liam could not sleep. It provided enough illumination that Melbourne could find his way.

The baby slept peacefully. He was not quite alone – night nurse snored on her narrow bed behind a screen – but Melbourne nonetheless felt a qualm each time he saw the tiny being so far from both parents, at the other end of a long corridor. Freddy's hands framed his face, two rosy palms turned outward, and his perfect little mouth puckered, as though he dreamed he was at the breast. His head was covered by fine downy strands of yellow-blonde hair, such new growth that it grew like a silky halo.

Melbourne's nightly visits to the children were a long-established tradition. When Liam was a babe, he had been permitted his vigil under Lehzen's watchful eyes. Lily, during those first precarious weeks, had been impossible to leave unguarded. It had been months before he was able to trust that she would continue to breathe through the night. Through it all, Lehzen had been the one constant, her silent stalwart presence as much a comfort to Melbourne as it was to Victoria and the children themselves.

"You're a lucky man, Will," Fred murmured, clearing his throat self-consciously.

When Melbourne absently wiped his cheek with the back of a hand his brother mirrored the gesture. Two of them in their sixties, married to girls one third of their age who adored them. But there the parallel ended. Frederick's young wife had not conceived in seven years of marriage, and likely would not, in the time they had left.

"Yes," Melbourne said softly, caressing his son's cheek lightly with the edge of his finger. Instinctively, the baby turned toward that touch on his cheek, wanting to feed.

The men tiptoed out of the nursery, and Melbourne wished his brother a good night. Then he went to his own empty apartment.

Victoria looked forward to his bedtime visits, but had not yet permitted him to share her bed. She had a strong prudish streak and considered herself _unclean_, until she was properly cleansed of the curse of Eve. He intensely disliked sleeping alone, and sorely missed her cold feet between his legs. He longed to feel her head on his shoulder, to inhale the scent of her clean hair under his nose. And he ached for that perfect union they shared.

She wore a high-necked nightdress, chastely buttoned under her chin, and her dark hair was brushed so that it gleamed in the lamplight. Melbourne kicked off his slippers and settled himself against stacked pillows, remaining atop the bedcovers she kept modestly tucked around her waist.

"Tell me how you found things in town," she invited, leaning against him so he put his arm about her shoulders.

Melbourne spoke of the passing of those necessary amendments to the debtor's prison bill, and named some of those who had sent their greetings to the queen. He repeated Bulwer-Lytton's risqué anecdote and was rewarded by Victoria's silvery peals of laughter. She sounded like a schoolgirl when she giggled, holding one hand self-consciously over her mouth. He tightened his embrace and she reached out to catch herself, briefly resting a hand on his lap.

Melbourne became aware that she understood his condition, and that she did not recoil from the discovery. He could feel the weight of her hand through the fabric of his dressing gown, and felt himself twitch in response. Instead of pulling away she squeezed him lightly. Melbourne felt himself grow warm, and looked down at her, his own half-abashed amusement plain on his face.

Victoria moved with painstaking care, tugging at the sash of his dressing gown. She lifted the hem of his shirt and drew it slowly up. Melbourne held his breath, anticipating what she might do next, not wanting to break the spell. She rose to her knees and crouched over him, kissing the pulse point in his throat. The ends of her hair swung free, tickling his abdomen until he thought the sensation would drive him made. Her lips moved to his collarbone and pressed in the hollow there. He forgot to exhale when the very tip of her tongue began flicking against his nipple, the sensitive skin over his ribcage, his navel. And then, as her exploratory kisses, nibbles and laps moved lower, he exhaled once, on an explosive sigh.

He might have thought then, how marvelous her aptitude was. He might even have remembered another young wife, so very long ago, who had shared her shock at such exotic _French_ practices with her own mother and his, condemning him to endless scurrilous speculation.

Caro, her very name synonymous with lascivious excess, had been essentially disinterested in sexual congress, whether with her own husband or a succession of lovers. She had thrilled to unrequited desire, to being pursued and fawned over, of driving men mad with desire.

Victoria, her own eponymous generation known for prudishness, was the very opposite of her predecessor in that regard. She disdained drawing room flirtation, carried herself with cool dignity and public restraint, and yet with him – _only_ with him, and he blessed her for it – embraced every aspect of physical intimacy. She had explored his body with a fascination born of love and discovered for herself this particular act, unaware that it was considered fit only for courtesans.

But he didn't think any of these things. When her lips went around him his mind stopped functioning and there was only sensation.

When he could breathe again and his racing heartbeat slowed to a more normal pace, Melbourne turned on his side to face Victoria. She lay against her own pillows, arms crossed on her chest in a virginal posture.

"I adore you, William, and I long for…the other. But until then…" Victoria ducked her head, suddenly shy, in a gesture Melbourne found irresistibly beguiling. "…I very much liked doing that. Did you?"

"_Did I?_" His voice cracked, and he hoped his incredulity was sufficiently obvious. "Uh…yes, madame, I liked it very much. If I promise not to ravage you in your sleep, now that I am sated, may I sleep in here tonight?"

Her bleeding had stopped some days prior. Even with separate apartments, it was impossible not to be aware. Victoria's sweet childish belief that he knew nothing of such things was as ridiculous as it was endearing. However – Melbourne sighed, resigned, and rearranged his clothing – since she felt strongly about the matter, he supposed another week was not too long to wait.

"You don't _mind_?" Victoria pushed her curtain of hair back and dared to meet his eyes. "I – oh yes, please, but only if it doesn't repel you. Another week and I will – yes, please."

Melbourne rose, but only long enough to turn down the covers on his side of the big bed.

"I most certainly do not mind," he said firmly. "Shall we put a bolster between us, just to make certain?"

Victoria's uncertainty showed on her face. He took pity and laughed, then lifted his arm to receive her.

"My darling, you are beautiful, perfect, pristine. And you have given me a wonderful gift in our son. Our _youngest_ child. What about that could possibly _repel_ me? Now hush…I am an old man, and need to recover my strength in sleep."

Victoria huffed a little sound, meaning, he thought, to signify disbelief of his flowery reassurances. But she nestled compliantly against his chest and slid cold feet between his shins.

"Lord M, I adore you. You are – you are too good to me. I don't deserve you, but I am eternally grateful to have you." Her eyes had the gleam of sincerity which could not be feigned, but Melbourne thought he saw a shadow there too. _Should I reassure her?_ he wondered. _No; we agreed to never speak of it again. She has learned to love Freddy, and those few bad days count as nothing against a lifetime of love_.

"Mrs. Melbourne, I love you more. You are my everything. Now sleep…morning will come soon enough, and with it all the demands of a new day."


	35. Chapter 35

♛

Melbourne politely asked to be set down at some distance from his destination. It was a fine spring day and he wanted the walk to clear his head and fill his lungs with fresh April air. In winter that same air would have been thick with coal smoke; in summer, the stench of human waste would rise from the Thames and permeate everything it touched. On the cusp of seasons there was no place finer than London, where the cherry trees would soon be in bloom, and on such a glorious day the city flaunted its seductive charm.

He maintained a moderate pace, touching the brim of his hat each time a passerby hailed him, stopping for longer intervals to exchange greetings with particular friends.

Melbourne had made his rounds, speaking a few genial words in this one's ear, listening to another's grievances. He took luncheon in the Members' Dining Room at the House of Commons as Anthony Ashley-Cooper's guest, as much to be seen as to make himself available to whomever wished to approach. A Tory newcomer seeking the cachet of a seat at Lord Melbourne's table, Disraeli's gregarious hectoring and Sir Howard Douglas, reciting what was surely a prepared speech advocating for an increase in retirement pay for Army physicians and veterinary surgeons. The proposal was benign enough that Melbourne felt quite safe in offering a general endorsement.

At each stopping point congratulations were offered on the birth of another Royal child; questions were asked, and assurances offered, on the newcomer's health. And at some point, in each genial backslapping encounter, these men made it plain that the cost of providing dowries and annuities for each Royal child was a matter of public and parliamentary concern.

"Stopping at three then?" from his more intimate acquaintances was less objectionable than the sentiment expressed by Feargus O'Connor. "Heir and a spare, and a girl to sell abroad."

Melbourne considered O'Connor, already in over his head and beset on all sides for his overambitious programme of misguided reform, deliberately provocative. He merely arched a brow and looked speakingly at the others within earshot, then bowed to the blustering social reformer and turned away with a smirk and shake of his head.

From the Commons, to be equitable, he had adjourned to the Lords' chambers and drank more coffee than was good for his digestion. When he emerged some hours later the late afternoon sun had lost some of its warmth. Melbourne sent his coachman ahead, reluctant for this first taste of freedom to end.

He and Victoria had weathered the worst and come through relatively unscathed. Their little family had a new member, and he would soon be introduced to the world. _She_ was herself again, caught up in the busyness of royal duty. Their mornings were spent together, going over the dispatches from Whitehall, correspondence from every corner of the globe. Melbourne might not have broached the subject, if Victoria herself had not expressed a desire to know what was being said in the corridors where true power lay. When it came time to depart, he was suddenly reluctant. Victoria had walked him to the portico where his carriage waited.

"I'm _fine_, Lord M. Truly." Her level gaze, the faint shadow of concern in her eyes – for _him_, not for herself – told him all he needed to know. There were no guarantees, but hovering could do no good.

_Merely keeping abreast of current affairs_, he had told Mr. Dickens when that gentleman caught up with him later, matching his pace. Mr. Dickens had a well-honed understanding of exactly how Melbourne worked his magic, and an appreciation for how successful it was.

During his days as a parliamentary reporter, Dickens had already grasped the necessity of looking beneath the surface because with Lord Melbourne, like an iceberg, nine-tenths of his real substance was beneath a smooth, glittering surface. Take his notorious indolence, for example. _Do-nothing Melbourne _was roundly criticized by those who equated activity with effectiveness and yet that _nothing_ had managed to keep Britain stable during a period of near-universal upheaval when thrones were toppling all over Europe. That indolence kept his door open so that firebrand unionists and socialist reformers, rather than scheming in a basement to overthrow the government, received so warm and jovial a welcome in the Home Secretary's office that they forgot what they were angry about. Melbourne ostensibly did little to advocate for reform, and yet his disinterest was so carefully calibrated that both arch-Conservatives and ultra-Liberals secretly believed he was on their side. That belief bought him enough credit with opposing factions that each side crept closer to centrist compromise.

Dickens had never heard Melbourne espouse a single strongly held principle, but he didn't hold that against him. _Nobody ever did anything very foolish except from some strong principle,_ Melbourne once told him. What he had in abundance was the ability to see all sides of every issue and deftly encourage others to meet on common ground.

"You've heard wrong, dear fellow," Melbourne smoothly replied to the reporter's probing question. "As we speak, the Sultan is outfitting ships with sorely-needed goods. Cash aid would go astray, diminishing as it passed through a hundred hands, and if ten shillings on every pound reached hungry mouths I would be as surprised as you."

Dickens, suspiciously well-informed, demanded to know whether the Queen had given orders that those ships were to be blocked from entering port.

"If those ships actually appear – and mind you, it's damned hard to substantiate anything at a distance – they will be routed in such a way as to avoid rioting in the distribution of aid. I give you my word that you will be the first – the _only_ – journalist to stand at the quay watching those provisions be offloaded."

_Then let him starve._

Melbourne wanted to shake himself, to be rid of that haunting refrain. He had for the most part succeeded in putting that unfortunate incident out of his mind. Freddy was whole and healthy and plump, having quickly regained the weight he had lost. Restored to his wet-nurse, well-fed and content, doted on by his family, the baby never fussed, was bright-eyed and alert, a favorite of everyone from the lowliest scullery maid to the Dowager Queen.

"Very neatly done, William," Dickens said drily. "Her most sovereign and illustrious Majesty is fortunate to have you at her side."

Melbourne briefly debated whether to deny that Victoria had, in fact, attempted to block all aid to her Irish subjects from foreign governments. She hadn't been herself and had, perhaps, been influenced by too-enthusiastic praise of such generosity by outsiders.

_No_, he decided, _to do so would have the opposite result. _Dickens would tell the story in the way he must, implying that the Sultan's generosity was Victoria's doing. In return, the aid would reach those most in need without unnecessary public fanfare – and without anyone else taking credit at Victoria's expense.

The irreverent tone of his articles showed Dickens to be no respecter of persons, but Melbourne liked the man as much as he found him useful. Theirs was a mutually beneficial arrangement, with Dickens' reputation as a liberal reformer lending credibility to the occasional stories they fed him. No one knew better than Charles Dickens how to shape public opinion. Scratch any reformer and you'll find an ardent Royalist at the core, Dickens had once told him unapologetically.

When they had nearly reached the end of the cul-de-sac, Melbourne saw his carriage parked where he had instructed the coachman to wait. He was winded from the brisk walk and leaned more heavily on his stick than he normally did.

"Stop in before you head back, William. There's a fellow I'd like you to meet." Dickens laid a restraining hand on his arm and winked broadly. "Even if you're sent to bed without your supper, it will have been worth your time."

♛

They passed an exceptionally pleasant few hours in the East India Club. The man to whom they were introduced was a ruddy Scott named Robert Fortune. Melbourne was a member in good standing of the Botanist Society of London, and had heard Fortune speak on several occasions. He was a plant hunter extraordinaire, on a par with Walter Medhurst. Fortune had recently published an account of his travels through the northern provinces of China.

It soon became clear that Dickens, for all his worldly knowledge, was ignorant of the finer points of horticulture. Melbourne listened with interest to Fortune's conversation, interjecting his own questions at intervals. Fortune began with a demure refusal to discuss his future endeavors, but by the time they'd emptied their second bottle of port he had alluded to a new commission from the East India Company. They had offered him five times his annual salary, to return to China on their behalf. Having said more than he intended, Fortune grew coy, but by then Melbourne had a fair guess what his mission would entail.

Throughout the evening Melbourne managed to firmly redirect his thoughts, each time they strayed to his little family awaiting his return. When he finally said good night to Dickens and wished Mr. Fortune safe travels, when he was in his carriage and headed toward home, with _Three_ _Years' Wanderings in the Northern Provinces of China_ signed by the author in his pocket, Melbourne exhaled heavily. He felt his protesting stomach clench with the anxiety he had been holding at bay. Victoria was hardly isolated and alone in a cottage; she was surrounded by well-wishers of every rank and station devoted to her well-being and that of the children.

_Then let him starve._

For the past week Victoria had been herself again. Two days of those seven she had spent in bed, heavily sedated with liberal doses of morphine. When she rose, there was no trace of her prior condition. _Puerperal mania_, Ferguson had said, was a critical exacerbation of pervasive melancholy. She had not been _mad_; certainly not. Only, certain of her least attractive traits had been amplified exponentially, until she was not quite _rational_. That, at least, was what he told himself, firmly and unequivocally.

_Then let him starve._

Step by step, it had all seemed so reasonable. To her, and momentarily at least, caught up in the spell she wove, to him. Except it had not been at all reasonable, or prudent, or wise. _Cruel_ was not a concept he could ever apply. She had meant no harm when she dismissed the wet-nurse; she had intended to feed the baby at her own breast again. And when she interpreted his refusal to nurse as willful defiance, well, that was the _mania_ at work, clouding her reason.

_Then let him starve_.

Melbourne blamed himself for his failure to recognize how dire the situation had become. Freddy was, at twenty days old, on the verge of starvation. Lehzen had peeled back the layers of swaddling and pinched a fold of pale bluish skin to show him the lack of resilience, while she haltingly explained. Even then she attempted to excuse her darling. _Drina thinks it's for the best _and _she means no harm _and, most cutting, _she won't listen to anyone but you._

He had gone to Victoria in a white-hot rage, and bore the guilt of that. What else could he have expected? Victoria would never yield to a frontal assault. He could have cajoled, charmed, flirted, seduced, implored. Instead, when she forbade his intervention in what she considered a strictly maternal matter, he had threatened to take all _three_ children away from her and make his departure public.

"_Puerperal mania_," Ferguson had intoned, shaking his head regretfully as he readied a first dose of sedative.

♛

Melbourne heard them before he saw them. Low-pitched voices, near-whispering coming from the bedchamber he once again shared with Victoria.

He tread lightly and the thick wool rugs swallowed any sound his footfalls might have made.

A single flickering flame scarcely penetrated the high-ceilinged chamber, casting only a small circle of golden light.

No servants idling where they should not have been; his senses told him it was she within.

Without understanding his own motivation, Melbourne did not want to reveal his presence just yet.

She was in bed, propped against a mound of pillows, and her long dark hair was loose on the satin skin of her shoulders. No heavy flannel gown, such as she had worn for weeks, uncomfortable with the changes in her own body. Intricately worked Honiton lace trimmed a diaphanous white lawn night dress.

Victoria held Freddy in the crook of her arm and read from an illustrated book. Liam knelt beside her, turning the pages whilst Lily leaned affectionately against her and listened. Lily being Lily, Melbourne grinned at her not-very-subtle attempts to rouse the sleeping infant. Each time she tugged at his ribbons or tweaked his hand Freddy stirred just enough to reward her effort. He had rebounded quickly, when his nurse was restored; within days he was pink, plump and happy again.

It was a beautiful tableau and Melbourne swallowed hard, past a sudden lump in his throat. _She_ was at peace, her face radiant in the flame of that guttering candle. _She_ was unchanged, the love of his life, his precious girl, who had given him these second-chance children. The very perfection of this blissful family scene stirred up unwanted memories of their recent near-tragedy. Victoria had suffered from a very real malady, of that the doctors had no doubt. He held no grudge for that, did not blame her, and was better equipped than most to appreciate the havoc caused by a mental disorder.

_Then why_-? He had endured the excesses of his first wife, and stood by her throughout her violent mood swings. He had cared for Augustus and refused to put him away, had accepted the boy as distinct from his condition.

_Because you wanted to believe in a fairy tale, you old fool, _came the caustic reply. It sounded exactly like Caroline's voice in his mind. Ariel, the fey fairy queen of a youthful dreamer, dressed up in a pretty costume to play the role he written her.

Victoria's determination to feed Freddy at her own breast despite the dark tension he so undoubtedly sensed, her resolve to force him to submit, and her inability to recognize his declining health – those had been driven by the _puerperal mania_. But her underlying motivation – the expectation that others must bend others to her will, her intolerance of any show of defiance whether real or perceived, even her lack of compassion for those who displeased her – those were an undeniable part of this girl he loved. The very circumstances of their coming together had been the fruit of that will to prevail, and if she was capable of deep abiding love – who knew better than he? – there was a hardness in her too. If he blamed her for anything it was shattering the illusion that her youth and the unquestioned adoration she bore him implied an uncomplicated, unblemished character.

Melbourne recalled the animosity she showed her own mother for years as she clung to old grievances, immune to the Duchess's attempts to ingratiate herself. He thought of King Leopold, who for so long stood _in loco parentis_, old letters proof of the longstanding affection between them. She had cast him aside for his understandable mistrust of a commoner forty years her senior – and, too, for his less pardonable political scheming.

And in the back of his mind, a more selfish concern– _could it have as easily been _him? If things had worked out differently, if they had never wed, would Victoria have rewritten their history as she had that of her mother and uncle? Would she have denied even the friendship between them? Would _Lord M_ be mentioned even as a footnote in the history of her reign? Would she have cast him into the outer darkness too?

_You have the love you deserve. She doesn't need to be perfect, only perfect for you, as you are for her. We are all a little broken, but when you find the one whose jagged edges exactly fit your hollow places, then your heart has found its home._

_Was that _Caroline's voice he heard, her Devonshire House drawl and childlike enunciation? _Or was it his own?_ Melbourne even imagined he felt Caro's firm hand little hand at the small of his back, prodding him forward. Lily looked up at his movement and her little face broke into a wide smile.

"Papa's home!" she cried, reaching out her arms. Victoria's expression held so much honest, incandescent sweetness that he felt the warmth to his toes.

Melbourne shook his head to clear it of foolish mental ramblings. Then he went toward the light and into the embrace of his family.


	36. Chapter 36

♛

The children remained with their parents until long past their customary retiring hour. Melbourne lazed, grinning, while they jumped and tumbled on the vast bed. When they collapsed, breathless with giggling, he took the book from Victoria and began reading aloud. Finally, when Lily's eyelids fluttered and Liam's curly head lolled heavy against his father's arm, Melbourne carried them both into the nursery.

During daylight hours the Royal nursery was a humming hive of activity, employing more than a dozen servants to care for the needs of the children. That number was decidedly reduced from the fifty-eight it had once taken to supervise the vast brood of Victoria's grandfather. Wet and dry nurses, rocker and dressers, nursemaids and necessary women to empty the chamber pots and launder the clothing. Teachers and tutors to augment that number, fencing and dancing and riding masters who visited the classroom daily.

Melbourne enjoyed the busyness and cheerful warmth of the children's apartment by day, but he particularly savored was the tranquility of nighttime. Clean and orderly, dimly lit and serene, the darkened nursery had long been his refuge. He never tired of gazing at the living proof of his miraculous change in fortune.

Having delivered the children into the care of their nurses, Melbourne returned with Freddy's night nurse in tow. Victoria still held the baby, gazing down at that sleeping face with a dreamy expression on her own. He silently seated himself on the edge of the bed, saying nothing.

"He forgives me, I think," Victoria whispered without meeting Melbourne's eyes.

"He loves you, and knows he is loved in return."

They never spoke of the words exchanged that unfortunate night, nor of the events which preceded it. For some things, speech was inadequate, and neither felt the need to address a subject both preferred to forget.

"The sight of you holding my baby…" Melbourne choked, when he could no longer contain the head-swirling tenderness he felt. "Thank you, ma'am. You have made me happier than I ever dreamed possible."

"He's very much your son, Lord M. He loves me no matter how poorly I behave, and trusts me to do better. You see, he smiles at his Papa," Victoria chortled, pleased. "And Lehzen says he is too young to truly smile and that is merely gas."

As if to refute her maternal smugness, Freddy at once produced a noise akin to ripping wet paper accompanied by the most noxious of odors.

"However, just now I think it's time for our little lord to return to his nurse."

Melbourne took their son and handed him off to his caretaker, then closed the door firmly behind her. He grunted from the fatigue which momentarily fogged his senses and Victoria was instantly beside him. She walked at his side into the dressing room and insisted he sit while she summon his valet. When he'd completed his evening toilette and was comfortable in dressing gown and well-worn slippers, Melbourne shuffled back into their bedchamber where Victoria waited.

"I suppose you walked, without regard for the condition of the streets," she clucked, sounding quite old for her years, and the housewifely chastisement was oddly comforting.

"It was prime walking weather, ma'am, and I felt uncommonly good stretching my legs once again."

"I've ordered a tray," she told him. "Now sit and let me tend to those aches and pains."

"I took luncheon with Ashley and supped with Mr. Dickens and a very interesting acquaintance. That reminds me –" Melbourne patted the pockets of his dressing gown, a gesture he knew as futile immediately. "I've brought a book back I thought we might look over together."

Victoria's small hands were surprisingly strong, with an unerring instinct for exactly how to touch him. She smoothed his skin with long strokes, then returned to knead underlying muscles. Melbourne felt tension he did not know he was holding melt away under her ministrations. She tilted his head first one way, then another, pinching the cords in his neck where they joined the base of his skull, and the pain-pleasure made him groan with ecstasy.

Her fingertips transmitted a tingling sensation that set his nerve endings alight, and Melbourne knew it was the very essence of love he felt from her hands. Prodding, pinching, kneading and stroking, she lovingly explored every inch of his body. Only when his muscles went limp with relaxation did she shift her attentions.

Victoria had taught herself to know his body over the years, and he was humbled by the depth of her knowledge. As a very young woman, she had given up her maidenhead without a whimper and was a more enthusiastic and adventurous lover than he ever dared imagine, but it was this sensual realm beyond mere amorous connection where genuine intimacy flourished. 

Carnal relations, no matter how mutually satisfactory, might as readily accomplished with a stranger, and marriage was a contract devised to ensure the orderly transfer of property and provide for the support of children.

_Ah but true intimacy_, Melbourne reflected, _is so much more_. _It is the freedom to accept as well as give, and in doing so reveal the ultimate vulnerability. It is…_this.

_It is also taking a risk to do needs to be done_, came the reminder. _It is trusting her not to withdraw her favor and affection when she feels openly challenged._

Melbourne felt almost delirious with the bliss of utter relaxation. He looked at Victoria's sleepy blue eyes, at the expression of love he found there.

_She won't listen to anyone but you_, Lehzen had said. Lehzen, the only person on earth who understood Victoria as well as he did. Or perhaps better – she dared to thwart her beloved charge, to whom she had sacrificed her entire life. And yet, on numerous occasions during Victoria's tumultuous childhood and adolescence, and on into adulthood, Lehzen had dared to confront her when it mattered.

Melbourne knew he was weak-willed when matters of the heart where concerned – certainly he had been told so often enough, when he failed to either bring Caro to heel or divorce her. He had rarely troubled himself to struggle against an overriding tendency to achieve peace at any price.

That cardinal trait had only been magnified exponentially with Victoria, his splendid girl-queen, _Gloriana_, who improbably chose to accept and return his love. He told himself that any effort to influence Victoria would be an abuse of authority and an insult to her independence, when the raw truth was, he feared the loss of her affection. She could easily turn cool, then cold, then indifferent, to anyone who displeased her. The Duchess endured that treatment for years, as did the majority of her Coburg relations.

"We're sending Dickens to Ireland to cover the arrival of the Sultan's ships," he muttered, rushing the words without preamble.

"I send word that the Navy should intercept the Sultan's ships before they cross the Channel. How would it look if a foreign government comes to the aid of our subjects?"

Melbourne inwardly winced at the sudden sharpness in her voice. Cursing his own clumsy delivery, he turned onto his side and laid a restraining hand over hers.

"I did not plan to run into him, but I did so –" he shrugged, as though it were of no particular importance. "-I took advantage of the opportunity to suggest he cover the story. I implored him not to reveal that Your Majesty's friendship with her brother sovereign prompted such unusual generosity." Melbourne drawled the last sentence, knowing she would understand his hope that Dickens would do the very opposite and trumpet her intervention on the front page of his paper.

Melbourne described the version of events he'd conveyed to the reporter, giving Victoria the credit for arranging Turkish aid in kind.

"You were recovering from childbirth when we discussed it," he finished. "But I'm certain you see the wisdom of this tactic. Your advisors were—misguided in the language they used, when they wrote the Sultan rejecting his monetary assistance."

Victoria's lips made a little moue of displeasure, but she had not pulled away and no storm broke over his head.

"You think this is wise?" she asked in a small voice.

"I do," Melbourne said firmly. "And I'm sure you agree. Newspapers are proliferating all over, and nothing remains unknown for long. Steamships make quick work of travel between England and the Continent, and even North America. The situation is dire right now, and another poor harvest will see wholesale famine, suffering and death that will wring the hearts of the world. The Crown cannot appear indifferent or impotent, and you, my darling girl, must be seen front and center in averting tragedy on a scale we haven't seen since the Black Death."

"'The impact of the blight will be exacerbated by the Whig government's economic policy of laissez-faire capitalism,' Dickens said, and he spoke the headlines we'll soon see. He's right, you know. Johnny Russell and the rest of his cabinet dearly want to do something but they'll never agree on _what_. You, my love, must show them the way. For your legacy, and Liam's future, we must hold the loyalty of the Irish and that will never be accomplished by force."

"Of course, you are right, Lord M, although it surprises me to hear you speak so of a Whig government." Victoria's tone was docile, even humble. She busied herself arranging the bedcovers and then, when he lifted his arm in invitation, laid her head on his shoulder.

"I was only ever a Whig in name, and by family affiliation. My own party accused me of being more Tory than a good party man."

"Tomorrow, pray tell me what else I must do. And tell me what other news you heard in Whitehall."

Melbourne was so relieved that he sighed aloud. He tightened his arm around Victoria's shoulders.

It was a bloodless victory, and for that he was thankful. Because she had freely surrendered her heart into his keeping, Melbourne knew that he had a great deal of influence over her, if only he used it wisely. Wisely _and sparingly_. He wanted nothing for himself, no temporal authority, fame or fortune. If he'd been accused of selflessness or nobility of character he would have laughed such an idea to scorn. Rather, loving and being loved by this remarkable young woman _was_ his reward, and risking her wrath the price he must pay.

"Shall I snuff the candle?" Melbourne stretched out his arm and pinched the flame between thumb and forefinger.

He must retrieve Fortune's book in the morning. There was a calling card tucked in the pages, with a date scrawled on the back. _R. Harrison, M.D., M.R.I.A., F.R.C.I. & E., Professor of Anatomy and Surgery, Trinity College, Dublin_.


End file.
